Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/carolinamountainOOmorliala 


u 


«*T^  ,-:    •«■ 


^mtp^^A'-  \ 


>*# 


iil 


^ 


jg^^'^^fc^---  i^^ 


i.i.^'^ 


'^ 


THE 
CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

BY 
MARGARET   W.  MORLEY  v 

Author  of  "The  Song  of  Life,"  "The  Bee  People,"  etc.,  etc. 
WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

<^ht  Riter^iDe  J^vt^  CambribQe 

1913 


COPYRIGHT,    I913,   BY   MARGARET  W.    MORLEY 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  October  iQij 


TO 

G.  H.  W. 

INSPIRER,    CRITIC,    FRIEND 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  PEACH  TREES  ARE  IN  BLOOM  .    .  I 

II.  TRAUMFEST  ON  THE  BLUE  RIDGE   .    .  6 

III.  THE  FOREST 15 

IV.  THE  SOUTHERN  APPALACHIAN  NATIONAL 

PARK 24 

V.  HOW  SPRING  COMES  IN  THE  SOUTHERN 

MOUNTAINS 36 

VI.  THE   CARNIVAL 49 

VII.  SUMMER   IN   THE   MOUNTAINS       ...  62 

VIII.  AUTUMN 70 

IX.  IS   IT   WINTER? 79 

X.  Cesar's  head  and  chimney  rock  .      .  88 

XI.  the   high   mountains 102 

XII.  FLAT    ROCK    COMMUNITY,    AN    IDEAL    OF 

THE   PAST Ill 

XIII.  ASHEVILLE II9 

XIV.  THE    EARLY    SETTLERS 138 

XV.  BILTMORE   AND   THE   NEW   ERA   .         .         .148 

XVI.  THE    PEOPLE 161 

XVII.  THE    SPEECH    OF   THE   MOUNTAINS       .         .  171 

XVIII.  'LIGHT   AND   COME   IN 1 82 

XIX.  PENELOPE   AND   NAUSICAA     .         .         .         .  190 

XX.  A   VANISHING    ROMANCE  .         .         .         .201 

XXI.  CHURCH   AND   SCHOOL 218 

XXII.  THE   CHEROKEE   NATION          ....  232 

XXIII.  THE   GREAT   SMOKY   MOUNTAINS           .         .  239 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


XXIV.  HIGHLANDS 

XXV.  THE    SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY    . 

XXVI.  THE  FORKS   OF    THE   PIGEON    RIVER 

XXVII.  PISGAH   AND   THE    BALSAMS 

XXVIII.  MOUNT   MITCHELL 

XXIX.  THE    FORKS   OF   THE    RIVER   TOE 

XXX.  LEDGER   AND   THE    ROAN      . 

XXXI.  LINVILLE   FALLS      .... 

XXXII.  BLOWING   ROCK      .... 

XXXIII.  THE    GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN 

XXXIV.  THE   HOLIDAY   OF   DREAMS 
INDEX         


248 
261 

277 
290 
302 
315 
325 
338 
349 
363 
379 
389 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Carolina  Mountains        .        .        .   Colored  frontispiece 
Mr.  George  H.  Warner  and  his  "Armored  Pine"      .     i6 

A  Road  in  the  Woods 32 

A  Laurel  Path 56 

In  Summer  Time 66 

The  Sorghum-Cutter 74 

Sunday  Morning 80 

A  "Bald" 104 

Crossing  the  River 108 

An  Old-time  House 142 

Going  Home 162 

A  Mountaineer's  Home 182 

Getting  Dinner 186 

Penelope 194 

Over  the  Tubs 198 

A  Moonshine  Still 206 

A  Good  Foot-Bridge 240 

Whiteside  Mountain 250 

The  Devil's  Court-House 254 

Near  Highlands 258 

Ford  and  Bridge  of  the  South  Toe  River  .        .        .316 

A  Pasture  on  the  Roan 332 

Peaks  of  Grandfather  Mountain 364 

The  Grandfather  Profile 370 

The  Yonahlossee  Road 376 

The  frontispiece  is  from  a  water-color  by  Miss  Amelia  M.  Watson, 
who  has  also  supplied  the  cover  illustration  and  the  drawing  for  the 
end-paper  map.  The  other  illustrations  are  from  photographs  by 
the  author. 


THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

I 

THE  PEACH  TREES  ARE  IN  BLOOM 

MARCH  winds  may  howl,  dull  skies  may  lower, 
and  chill  airs  pinch,  up  there  in  the  frozen 
North,  but  down  here  —  the  peach  trees  are  in  bloom ! 
They  have  opened  like  a  burst  of  sunshine.  On  all 
sides,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  landscape  has 
over  it  the  glow  of  peach  blossoms. 

If  you  happen  to  be  crossing  the  State  of  North 
Carolina  towards  the  mountains  at  this  time,  you 
will  get  a  thrilling  sense  of  the  real  mission  of  the 
peach  tree.  As  the  train  sweeps  over  the  country, 
one  flower- wreathed  picture  follows  another :  here  a 
tumble-down  cabin  with  peach  trees  in  ecstatic 
bloom  at  one  corner,  there  a  hollow  filled  with  airy 
pink  blossoms  from  the  midst  of  which  rises  a  farm- 
house roof;  the  sordid  little  village,  the  unpainted 
house,  the  slope,  the  hilltop,  each  and  everything 
your  eye  beholds  is  an  adorable  picture  by  grace  of 
the  blossoming  peach  trees.  They  seem  to  have 
alighted  by  chance,  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  like 
wild  flowers.  You  see  them  scattered  over  the  cotton 
fields  singly  or  in  groups,  covering  the  waste  places, 
making  long  hedges,  embowering  the  earth. 

Occasionally  these  trees  are  in  orchards  that  do  not 


2  THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

begin  anywhere  in  particular,  and  trail  off  to  no- 
where, a  ravishing  maze  of  pink  blossoms.  Some- 
times crowding  close  to  the  track,  they  fly  past  the 
car  window  a  mere  blur  of  color.  Again  a  shining 
band  of  them  stands  still  on  the  brow  of  a  distant 
hill.  The  sky  above  is  blue.  The  warm  red  earth  is 
overlaid  with  tawny  stubble,  excepting  where  the 
plough  has  turned  up  a  bright  field.  The  air  is  soft 
and  full  of  the  smell  of  the  earth.  All  Nature  is  in 
tune  with  the  joyous  peach  trees. 

In  the  yards  are  yellow  bushes  and  daffodils. 
Snowy  clusters  of  wild  plums  or  of  service  blossoms 
shine  out  from  the  woods  here  and  there,  but  the 
event  of  the  day  is  the  endless  procession  of  blossom- 
ing peach  trees.  They  go  dancing  by,  hour  after 
hour;  trees,  old  and  young,  large  and  small,  standing 
in  all  attitudes,  graceful,  laughing,  exquisite  —  there 
is  no  end  to  them.  From  the  sea  to  the  mountains, 
the  whole  South  is  smiling  through  a  veil  of  peach 
blossoms. 

As  finally  you  approach  the  mountains  that  form 
the  western  end  of  North  Carolina,  you  catch  glimpses 
of  heights  so  divinely  blue  that  you  seem  about  to 
enter  some  dream  world  through  their  magical  por- 
tals. 

Through  an  opening  between  the  mountains  the 
train  makes  its  way,  and  at  an  elevation  of  about  a 
thousand  feet  leaves  you  at  Traumfest,  and  contin- 
ues its  course  up  and  over  the  difficult  barrier  of  the 
Blue  Ridge.  For  Traumfest  lies  in  a  nook  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  Mountains,  and  although  it  may  not  appear 


PEACH  TREES   IN   BLOOM  3 

by  that  name  on  the  maps,  the  place  itself  is  a 
reality.  The  enfolding  mountains,  so  dreamy,  so 
enchanting  in  coloring  when  seen  at  their  best  mo- 
ments, will  explain  the  name  and  justify  it,  for 
translated  into  English  "Traumfest"  means  "Holi- 
day of  Dreams,"  or,  if  one  is  willing  to  tamper  a  little 
with  grammatical  endings,  it  means,  best  of  all,  per- 
haps, "  Fortress  of  Dreams."  Here  lingers  a  touch  of 
summer  even  in  midwinter,  because  of  the  evergreen 
trees  and  shrubs  that  so  abound.  And  here  spring 
comes  early,  for  Traumfest,  be  it  known,  lies  in  the 
thermal  belt,  that  magic  zone  where,  although  it  may 
freeze,  there  is  never  any  frost. 

In  this  gentle  land  where  even  the  cocks  crow  with 
a  Southern  accent,  the  newcomer,  half-awake  in  the 
early  morning,  hears  the  great  city  he  has  recently 
left  singing  like  a  city  of  the  blest.  As  consciousness 
emerges  from  the  mists  of  sleep,  however,  one  dis- 
covers that  although  the  singing  is  real,  it  does  not 
come  from  the  town,  now  happily  far  aw^ay.  It 
comes  from  the  negroes  down  in  the  hollow,  from  the 
birds  in  the  trees,  and  from  the  little  children  of  the 
white  people  who  live  on  the  hilltops.  All  Traumfest 
seems  to  be  singing.  It  makes  one  want  to  sing  too. 
And  that  is  the  magic  and  the  charm  of  the  South ; 
cares  fly  away  and  one  wants  to  sing. 

Mingling  as  it  were  with  the  singing  of  the  people 
is  the  subtle  smell  of  spring.  One  wonders  what  that 
odor  of  the  Southern  spring  comes  from,  and  sus- 
pects that  the  smoke  of  pine  wood  ascending  like 
incense  from  the  hearthstones  in  all  the  houses  has 


4  THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

something  to  do  with  it.  It  is  a  fragrance  pecuh'ar  to 
the  South,  places,  as  well  as  animals,  flowers,  and 
races,  having  their  distinguishing  odors. 

One  soon  discovers  that  the  half-wild  peach  trees 
that  make  the  foothills  so  lovely  are  also  present  in 
the  mountains,  where  they  bloom  a  little  later  and 
quite  as  enchantingly.  To  walk  along  them  is  quite 
as  delightful  as  to  fly  past  them  on  the  train,  and 
there  is  this  advantage,  one  can  hear  as  well  as  see 
them.  If  the  blossoming  trees  do  not  sing  aloud  and 
clap  their  hands  for  joy,  they  at  least  draw  to  them- 
selves a  blissful  chorus  of  happy  creatures.  Little 
things  on  wings  have  suddenly  appeared.  They  seem 
to  have  blossomed  with  the  peach  trees,  for  yester- 
day they  were  not.  Now  the  air  hums  with  them, 
bees,  wasps,  flies,  beetles,  bugs,  butterflies,  all  as 
busy  as  though  they  were  of  tremendous  importance 
in  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  And  walking  thus 
among  the  blossoming  trees,  we  can  smell  as  well  as 
hear  and  see  them. 

It  is  hard  to  tell  which  is  best,  the  beauties  of  the 
day  or  the  beauties  of  the  night  in  this  smiling  land. 
The  nights  are  so  cool,  so  fragrant,  and  so  enticing 
that  one  has  an  impulse  to  roam  the  woods  in  the 
magical  moonlight  and  under  the  softly  glowing 
stars.  The  stars  hang  big  and  dewy,  dreamy  lights  in 
the  vault  of  heaven.  And  there  are  so  many  of  them, 
so  bewilderingly  many !  That  great  star  one  sees  in 
midwinter,  glowing  low  towards  the  horizon  and 
competing  with  Sirius  in  brilliancy,  is  Canopus  of 
the  Southern  heavens,  and  in  the  month  of  March 


PEACH  TREES   IN   BLOOM  5 

the  faint  star  Fomalhaut  is  seen  in  the  Southern 
sky  below  Scorpio,  also  unknown  in  the  Northern 
heavens,  while  that  rare  sight,  the  great  cone  of  the 
zodiacal  light,  is  sometimes  to  be  seen  just  after  the 
sun  has  set. 

And  the  night  here  has  its  well-remembered  sounds, 
the  gentle  breeze  lightly  sighing  through  the  pines, 
the  gust  of  wind  striking  the  trees  into  deeper  music, 
the  trill  of  a  bird,  the  muffled  call  of  an  owl,  and  in 
summer  the  insistent  call  of  the  whip-poor-will  and 
the  orchestral  boom  of  a  thousand  insect  performers. 
Besides  these,  there  is  one  sound  that  never  fails 
summer  or  winter.  At  stated  intervals  the  cocks  wake 
up  and  crow.  They  divide  the  night  into  watches  of 
about  three  hours.  You  hear  one  clear  call,  a  voice 
responds,  then  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  like 
watchmen  exchanging  the  signal,  the  cry  goes  forth ; 
you  hear  the  circle  widening  from  that  first  challenge 
to  distant  margins  where  the  voices  are  faint  almost 
as  memories  —  you  imagine  them  circling  on  and  on 
orver  the  earth,  and  then  all  is  still  for  another  three 
hours.  At  the  last  crowing  of  the  cocks,  as  though 
the  sun  were  answering  to  their  call,  a  gentle  radi- 
ance flows  up  into  the  dome  of  the  sky  and 

"  tenderly  the  haughty  day 
Fills  his  blue  urn  with  fire." 


II 

TRAUMFEST   ON   THE    BLUE    RIDGE 

THE  Blue  Ridge!  What  mountains  ever  offered 
themselves  to  the  sun  so  enchantingly  as  the 
long  curve  of  the  Appalachian  chain  where  it  passes 
through  Virginia  and  North  Carolina  down  to  Ala- 
bama, running  all  the  way  full  southwest!  This 
battlement  of  heaven  was  not  named  by  accident. 
It  was  named  Blue  because  there  was  no  other  name 
for  it.  It  is  blue;  tremendously,  thrillingly  blue; 
tenderly,  evasively  blue.  And  the  sky  that  contains 
it  is  also  entrancingly  blue;  even  the  storms  do  not 
make  it  sullen,  and  when  they  pass,  the  sun  breaks 
out  more  radiantly  than  ever.  Beyond  the  Blue 
Ridge  in  North  Carolina,  other  and  higher  mountains 
rise  like  spirit  forms  into  the  deep  sky,  rank  upon 
rank,  height  upon  height,  guarded  as  it  were  and 
protected  by  the  encircling  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 
Traumfest,  Fortress  of  Dreams,  rests  in  a  vast 
amphitheatre  on  the  eastern  front  of  the  Blue  Ridge, 
an  amphitheatre  formed  by  a  cordon  of  forest-cov- 
ered mountains  that  nearly  inclose  the  place,  and 
among  which  are  Hogback  on  the  south  and  Tryon 
Mountain  on  the  north,  both  descending  towards 
the  east  in  a  series  of  ridges  surmounted  by  low 
peaks,  and  leaving  open  between  them  a  wide  arc 
for  the  sun  to  enter.  And  how  the  sun  does  enter, 


TRAUMFEST  ON  THE   BLUE  RIDGE        7 

flooding  the  place  and  also  the  mountains  that  inclose 
Traumfest  as  with  loving  arms. 

The  peculiar  charm  of  Traumfest  comes  from  the 
fact  that  it  lies  thus  open  to  the  east ;  it  does  not  have 
to  wait  for  the  sun  to  climb  and  look  in  after  his  first 
morning  freshness  is  dimmed.  Its  horizon  is  in  reality 
the  horizon  of  the  plains.  In  the  dewy  morning  one 
sees  the  sky  lighten,  and  then  the  torch  of  day  flash 
from  hill-crest  to  hill-crest,  the  tree-tops  kindling  in 
masses,  with  night  shadows  yet  intervening.  If  the 
day  is  clear,  you  may  look  far  down  the  sea  of  color  to 
where  there  rises  as  it  were  an  island,  long,  rounded, 
and  pale  blue,  or  maybe  the  color  of  mist,  and 
scarcely  visible  against  the  sky  of  which  it  seems  a 
part.  That  faint,  sweet  island  swimming  in  the  mists 
is  King's  Mountain,  where  one  of  the  bravest  deeds 
in  the  history  of  the  New  World  was  once  done  by  a 
little  band  of  heroes  from  these  mountains. 

Because  of  its  warm  and  beautiful  location,  and 
because  the  railroad  came  through  that  open  door  of 
the  mountains,  passing  up  the  valley  of  the  Pacolet 
and  over  the  crest  of  the  Blue  Ridge  to  Asheville, 
Traumfest  is  not  only  the  largest  of  the  villages  on 
the  eastern  slope  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  but  was  among 
the  first  to  become  a  resort  for  visitors  from  all  parts 
of  the  country,  here  having  grown  up  a  friendly 
community  representing  more  than  two  dozen  states. 
Strangers  say  that  Traumfest  reminds  them  of  an 
Old  World  village,  with  its  bright  painted  houses 
and  the  little  church  with  its  square  stone  tower,  the 
gift  of  one  who  lived  here  and  loved  the  place.  Like 


8  THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  peach  trees,  Traumfest  seems  to  have  happened, 
straggHng  about  over  a  number  of  ridges  separated 
from  each  other  by  deep  hollows  through  which  pass 
the  connecting  roads  or  paths,  or  down  which  run 
dancing  brooks.  Like  the  rest  of  the  mountain  vil- 
lages, it  is  all  up  and  down  hill,  most  of  the  houses 
having  their  front  door  on  the  hilltop  and  the  back 
door  dow^n  below  somewhere.  It  adds  to  the  un- 
studied effect  of  the  place  that  its  houses  are  set  at 
every  angle,  each  person  placing  his  as  fancy  dic- 
tates, but  avoiding  as  by  instinct  planting  any 
building  square  with  the  points  of  the  compass. 

Although  Traumfest  now  contains  enough  new 
settlers  considerably  to  temper  the  manner  of  life, 
its  ancient  quality  is  not  all  gone,  as  he  who  tries  to 
get  anything  done  on  time,  or  done  at  all,  will  soon 
discover.  That  ox  team  slowly  pulling  a  load  of  wood 
along  Traumfest's  main  residence  street  also  tends 
to  dispel  any  illusion  concerning  the  extent  of  change 
that  may  have  taken  place,  while  four  oxen  attached 
to  one  small  cart  sometimes  hint  at  primitive  roads 
not  far  away. 

Traumfest's  main  street  is  bright  red  in  color,  for 
the  Blue  Ridge,  although  so  enchantingly  blue  in  the 
distance,  has  a  soil  composed  largely  of  red  clay,  the 
characteristic  soil  of  the  whole  mountain  region,  as 
also  of  the  foothills.  Consequently  long  threads  of 
red  and  ochre  and  pink  are  woven  through  the  sunny 
greens  that  here  prevail  as  the  roads  wind  uphill  and 
down,  over  the  heights  and  through  the  hollows. 
Red  roads  wind  past  houses  with  red-tinted  founda- 


TRAUMFEST  ON   THE   BLUE   RIDGE        9 

tlons  and  chimneys  chinked  with  red  mud,  and 
along  through  fields  where  the  vegetation  is  sparse, 
as  though  loath  to  hide  the  fervid  color  of  the  soil, 
while  here  and  there  you  will  see  a  stream  flowing 
with  blood-red  water.  Even  the  wasps'  nests  that  so 
plentifully  adorn  the  walls  and  rafters  are  built  of 
red  mud.  Men  and  boys  have  red  ends  to  their 
trousers,  and  reddish-looking  shirt-sleeves,  horses 
have  red  hoofs  and  white  mules  have  bright  red  legs. 
It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  all  the  earth 
is  red;  there  is  some  gray  soil,  some  that  is  brown, 
and  much  that  is  yellow;  but  red  predominates  to 
such  a  degree  that  you  think  of  this  as  a  red  land. 

Reinforcing  the  warm  color  of  the  soil  is  the  sunny 
nature  of  the  greens.  One  never  sees  here  the  cold 
dark  greens  of  the  North ;  even  the  pine  trees  have  a 
warm  tint  as  though  soaked  in  sunshine,  and  on  the 
eastern  slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  there  is  no  green- 
sward, the  ground  in  summer  being  covered  with 
sparse  wild  grasses,  and  little  bushes  and  herbs  that 
paint  the  landscape  in  many  tones. 

Lying  as  it  does  on  the  South  Carolina  state  line, 
Traumfest,  in  addition  to  its  other  attractions,  has  a 
spice  of  border  romance,  for  constantly  crossing 
from  one  state  to  the  other  is  that  picturesque 
figure,  the  "moonshiner,"  who  persists  in  distilling 
corn  whiskey  in  secret  places  and  in  passing  the  cup 
that  cheers  and  most  certainly  inebriates  to  his  will- 
ing neighbors,  in  defiance  of  the  laws  that  declare 
such  actions  to  be  unlawful.  Hogback  and  its  com- 
panion. Rocky  Spur,  are  in  South  Carolina,  and  be- 


10         THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

tween  them  and  Traumfest,  and  also  in  South  Caro- 
lina, lies  one  of  those  mysterious  regions  known  as 
the  "  Dark  Corners,"  into  whose  dread  precincts  one 
is  warned  with  ominous  head-shakings  not  to  ven- 
ture, for  here  generations  of  moonshiners  have  car- 
ried on  the  distillation  of  corn  whiskey  in  a  fashion 
nominally  secret,  undoubtedly  reprehensible,  and 
very  picturesque. 

The  Southern  sun  that  floods  the  mountains  and 
beautifies  the  landscape  has  an  irresistible  influence 
over  the  people  as  well.  No  native  thinks  of  disobey- 
ing its  implicit  command  —  "Thou  shalt  not  hurry"; 
therefore  the  native-born  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  no 
matter  what  else  he  may  lack,  is  rich  in  time,  a  pos- 
session denied  to  the  foreign  invader  who  keeps  his 
hoe  in  the  tool-house  where  he  can  find  it  when  he 
wants  it.  The  mountain  man  leaves  his  in  the  field, 
and  when  he  wants  it,  if  he  cannot  find  it,  he  drops 
the  subject.  That  the  ancient  and  honorable  art  of 
"settin'  around"  has  been  cultivated  until  it  has 
grown  into  an  integral  part  of  life,  you  discover  upon 
asking  a  mountain  woman,  who  has  waited  in  town 
half  a  day  for  some  one  to  come,  what  she  did  with 
her  time,  and  receive  the  illuminating  reply,  "Oh,  I 
jest  sot." 

That  the  sun  in  time  conquers  even  the  most 
vigorous  newcomer  is  a  fact  plainly  discernible  in 
Traumfest,  where  the  people  may  be  divided  into 
three  classes :  Northerners  who  are  always  in  a  hurry, 
Southerners  who  are  never  in  a  hurry,  and  North- 
erners in  process  of  southernization,  who  are  some- 


TRAUMFEST  ON  THE   BLUE  RIDGE       ii 

times  but  not  always  in  a  hurry.  In  course  of  time 
the  Northern  type  becomes  obliterated  unless  re- 
newed from  the  original  source. 

The  perfect  type,  of  which  the  rest  of  us  are  but 
modifications,  is  illustrated  by  the  man  from  Turkey 
Pen  Gap,  to  see  whom  move  is  a  revelation.  It  is  as 
though  eternity  were  ever  present  in  his  conscious- 
ness. It  was  he  who  said  in  his  inimitable  drawl,  "  I 
would  rather  go  up  a  mountain  than  daown  one.  For 
when  you  go  up,  you  cain't  hurry,  and  when  you 
come  daown,  you  have  to." 

When  a  mountaineer  unexpectedly  completes  a 
piece  of  work  or  makes  some  unwonted  exertion,  you 
may  be  tempted  to  think  it  the  result  of  forethought, 
but  if  you  ask  him  about  it  he  will  probably  tell  you 
it  was  because  he  ''tuk-a-notion."  Life  has  many 
consolations  run  on  the  "  tuk-a-notion "  principle. 

''We're  powerful  poor  around  here,  but  we  don't 
mean  no  harm  by  it,"  is  the  cheery  greeting  you  get 
when  you  visit  an  ancient  native  of  the  forest  who 
you  know  does  not  think  himself  poor  at  all.  He  has 
plenty  of  time,  the  thing  he  values  most.  It  was  he 
who  used  to  tell  his  reminiscences  of  the  war,  into 
which  he  had  been  drafted  much  against  his  will,  and 
concerning  the  meaning  of  which  he  in  common  with 
his  neighbors  was  not  very  clear.  When  you  asked 
him  about  it  he  knit  his  brows,  "studied"  a  minute, 
then  slowly  said,  "  Law,  which  side  was  I  on?"  But 
though  the  mountaineer  may  have  been  puzzled 
concerning  the  meaning  and  advantages  of  the  War 
of  the  Rebellion,  which  he  sometimes  classified  as  "  a 


12        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

rich  man's  war  and  a  poor  man's  fight,"  and  escaped 
if  he  could,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  was  either 
cowardly  or  uncertain  where  he  understood  the 
issue,  a  witness  to  the  contrary  being  what  occurred 
at  King's  Mountain  that  stormy  day  so  long  ago. 

The  village  people,  many  of  whom  are  native 
North  Carolinians,  are  not  to  be  classed  with  the 
mountaineers  of  the  rural  districts,  for  the  villagers 
for  the  most  part  have  come  from  the  old  planta- 
tions, or  from  less  primitive  regions  below  the  moun- 
tains. But  although  the  village  shops  have  recently 
attained  a  high  standard  in  both  products  and  prices, 
it  is  a  fact  of  far-reaching  psychological  significance 
that  even  now  you  cannot  buy  a  darning-needle  in 
the  city  of  Traumfest.  Yet  your  neighbors  seem 
happy  and  respected  by  their  fellows  and  totally 
unconscious  of  any  gap  in  their  lives. 

Besides  the  white  people,  Traumfest  is  blessed 
with  the  negro,  that  true  child  of  the  sun  who  is 
found  everywhere  at  the  foot  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  but 
is  not  so  often  seen  in  the  higher  mountains  except- 
ing in  the  larger  villages.  He  prefers  to  linger  near 
the  cotton-line,  the  mountains  being  too  sparsely 
settled  to  satisfy  his  gregarious  instincts.  Most  of 
the  negroes  here  are  descended  from  slaves  brought 
up  on  the  plantations  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood. They  are  good,  and  for  the  most  part  as 
industrious  at  least  as  the  white  people,  and  when 
you  know  them  personally  and  intimately,  you  can- 
not help  loving  them.  They  believe  in  ghosts  and 
signs  and  a  hereafter,  they  are  afraid  of  the  comet, 


TRAUMFEST  ON  THE   BLUE  RIDGE      13 

and  they  have  good  appetites.  Many  of  them  bear 
picturesque  names  bestowed  upon  them  by  the 
white  people  and  yet  more  remarkable  ones  of  their 
own  selection,  their  feeling  for  rhythm  alone  often 
guiding  them  in  their  choice;  hence  the  delightful 
name,  Greenville  Female  Seminary  Simms,  proudly 
worn  by  a  young  girl  of  Traumfest. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  characters  among 
them  are  the  few  survivors  of  the  old  regime,  who 
are  really  proud  of  their  slavery  and  the  fact  that 
they  learned  how  to  work  and  how  to  behave.  Among 
them  is  Aunt  Hootie,  whose  full  name  she  will 
proudly  tell  you  in  a  sort  of  rhythmical  chant.  This 
is  it  —  "Anna  Mar^'a,  Lucy  Lees,  Licif^'er,  Mary 
Ann,  Markalma,  Gallahootie,  Waters,  Mooney. 
Aunt  Hootie  for  short."  Waters  and  Mooney  were 
acquired  by  two  excursions  into  matrimony,  but 
the  other  names  were  bestowed  at  the  baptismal 
font.  Aunt  Hootie  is  pious.  Whenshe  comes  to  visit, 
which  is  generally  about  dinner-time,  she  graciously 
accepts  an  invitation  to  stay,  never  omitting  rever- 
ently to  "make  a  beginning,"  as  grace  before  meat 
is  expressed  in  the  mountains.  Aunt  Hootie's  "be- 
ginning ' '  is  simple,  but  to  the  point ;  folding  her  hands 
and  composing  her  features  she  reverently  remarks, 
"O  Lord,  thou  knowest  I  need  this,"  and  proceeds 
to  verify  the  assertion. 

Near  her  picturesque  cabin  on  the  outskirts  of 
Traumfest  is  that  of  Aunt  Eliza,  who,  though  a 
churchwoman,  is  not,  properly  speaking,  pious.  She 
has  outlived  slavery  and  her  husband,   for  b«th 


14         THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

which  blessings  she  is  duly  grateful.  ''Now  I  can 
put  my  bread  and  cheese  upon  the  shelf  and  nothing 
can  blow  cold  upon  me  unless  I  let  it,  ha!  ha!"  she 
exclaims  triumphantly  when  congratulating  herself 
upon  having  weathered  the  perilous  seas  of  matri- 
mony. Aunt  Eliza  is  a  strong  woman  and  works 
hard  when  she  has  to.  When  the  bread  and  cheese 
get  low,  she  goes  to  chopping  down  the  pine  trees  on 
her  piece  of  land.  She  converts  them  into  firewood 
and  hauls  them  to  town  on  a  home-made  sled  drawn 
by  a  very  reluctant  bull  calf,  whose  neck  she  has 
subjected  to  the  yoke  despite  his  manifest  disap- 
proval. It  used  to  be  one  of  the  diversions  of  Traum- 
fest  to  see  Aunt  Eliza  "wrastling"  with  her  calf  on 
the  way  to  town,  she  at  one  end  of  the  rope  braced 
and  inclined  like  a  leaning  tower,  the  calf  at  the 
other  end,  braced  and  rigid,  leaning  in  the  opposite 
direction.  In  her  garden  she  raises,  so  she  tells  you, 
"oodles  of  gubers  and  tatefs,"  which  translated 
means  a  great  many  peanuts  and  potatoes.  Let  not 
this  appearance  of  energy,  however,  deceive  or  alarm 
any  one,  for  Aunt  Eliza  manages  to  make  her  way 
without  seriously  disturbing  the  waters  of  idleness. 
Some  time  since,  Aunt  Eliza  got  religion.  She 
began  going  to  church  and  profiting  according  to 
her  light  on  the  "preachment"  and  "taughtment" 
of  the  scriptures  as  there  expounded,  though  her 
piety  is  intermittent,  according  to  the  long-suffering 
"preacher,"  who  shakes  his  venerable  head  over  her 
state  as  he  remarks  with  a  sigh,  "Eliza  is  a  mighty 
peace-breakin'  woman." 


Ill 

THE  FOREST 

THE  first  thing  one  notices  upon  approaching 
the  mountains  is  that  the  Blue  Ridge  is  wooded 
to  the  top,  the  beautiful  Blue  Ridge  with  all  its  out- 
reaching  spurs.  And  one  later  discovers  that  this  is 
also  true  of  the  high  mountains  back  of  it,  for  the 
Southern  Appalachian  forests  are  not  only  the  high- 
est-lying of  all  the  hardwood  forests  in  North  Amer- 
ica, but  the  largest  left  in  this  once  forest-covered 
country.  Some  six  thousand  square  miles  of  them  lie 
spread,  a  shining  web  of  lights  and  colors,  over  the 
North  Carolina  mountains  alone. 

But  although  trees  clothe  the  mountains  here  as 
with  a  garment,  their  boundless  expanse  is  not  op- 
pressive, for  the  forest  floor,  unobstructed  by  glacial 
boulders  and  wet  hollows,  is  easily  traversed.  As  a 
rule  its  trees  stand  apart,  tall,  clean  columns  beneath 
which  little  green  things  and  wild  flowers  grow,  while 
the  sun  shines  through  the  leafy  roof.  One  reason 
the  floors  are  so  clean  is  that  they  are  frequently 
swept  by  the  fires  that  break  out  every  winter  either 
through  carelessness,  or  else  on  purpose  to  clear  the 
ground  that  fresh  green  may  start  for  the  cattle.  In 
the  dry  season  smoke  clouds  ascend  on  all  sides.  At 
night  cities  with  their  twinkling  lights  seem  to  have 
sprung  up  as  by  magic  on  the  slopes,  or  else  lines  and 
curves  of  fire  gird  the  mountain-tops.    The  atmos- 


i6         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

pheric  effect  of  these  fires  is  lovely;  a  tender  haze 
envelops  the  landscape,  while  the  air  is  filled  with 
that  faint  and  exquisite  fragrance  of  burning  wood 
that  one  always  associates  with  the  South,  The  air 
is  smoky,  but  how  different  these  clouds  of  incense 
from  the  smoke  of  a  city!  Strong,  sweet  winds 
blow  over  the  mountains,  mingling  the  odor  of  grow- 
ing things  with  that  of  the  burning  forest. 

Such  trees  as  fall  from  fire  or  other  causes,  in  this 
ardent  climate  quickly  resolve  into  their  elements. 
If  they  do  not  burn  up,  they  decompose,  excepting 
the  heartwood  of  mature  pine  trees  that  for  years 
may  lie  embedded  in  the  crumbling  envelope  of  the 
outer  wood,  forming  the  fragrant  "fat  pine"  of  the 
South,  a  splinter  of  which  kindles  at  the  touch  of 
a  match.  Heavy,  translucent,  and  damp  with  resin- 
ous juices,  it  burns  with  fierce  heat  and  fiercer 
flames,  the  smoke  that  ascends  from  it  being  heavy 
like  lampblack,  although  it  does  not  smell  like  that : 
it  smells  like  the  South.  It  is  the  same  odor  intensi- 
fied that  steals  over  the  earth  when  the  sun  is  on  the 
pine  trees.  For  here  the  pine  is  everywhere  present 
to  the  eye  and  to  the  sense  of  smell.  Of  all  the  trees 
it  Is  the  one  the  stranger  first  notices,  and  the  first 
thing  the  newcomer  says  is,  "How  bright  the  pine 
trees  look,"  for,  instead  of  sharing  the  sombre  aspect 
of  pines  that  grow  in  the  North,  these  seem  full  of 
sunshine. 

Perhaps  the  pine  also  owes  its  supremacy  here  as 
elsewhere  to  a  certain  atmosphere  of  antiquity  cling- 
ing about  it  and  unconsciously  affecting  the  feelings 


G.    H.   W.   AND   HIS   ARMORED    PINE 


THE   FOREST  17 

of  one  looking  at  it.  For  we  know  its  family  to  be  the 
sole  arboreal  survivor  in  this  country  of  the  myriads 
of  strange  forms  that  covered  the  earth  in  past 
geological  ages  —  long  before  there  were  any  broad- 
leaved  trees  in  existence.  However  that  may  be,  the 
ancient  form  of  the  pine  gives  a  characteristic  aspect 
to  the  scenery  of  the  Carolina  mountains,  as  well  as 
characteristic  fragrance  to  the  woods,  and  a  charac- 
teristic note  in  the  music  of  the  forest  as  the  wind 
sweeps  over  it. 

The  noblest  tree  among  them,  the  tall  Pinus 
echinata,  inTraumfestknownas  the  "armored  pine," 
from  the  large  plate-like  scales  of  its  bark,  stands 
head  and  shoulders  above  the  rest  of  the  forest,  its 
picturesque  crown  of  twisted  limbs  overtopping  the 
other  trees  along  the  crest  of  the  ridges. 

Quite  different  in  appearance  is  the  Pinus  Virgin- 
iana,  whose  spreading  crown  is  close-dotted  with 
little  dark  cones  that  cling  fast  for  several  years, 
until  the  tree  finally  looks  like  a  Japanese  decora- 
tion. This  charming  tree  appears  more  mundane 
than  the  towering  armored  pine,  whose  spirit  seems 
to  be  engrossed  with  matters  of  the  sky.  One  could 
imagine  the  Pinus  Virginiana  laughing,  but  never 
the  armored  pine.  It  is  the  Pinus  Virginiana  that 
gives  that  delicious  fragrance  to  roads  banked  with 
its  young  trees,  a  fragrance  like  that  of  a  freshly 
opened  tangerine  orange.  Besides  these  two,  there 
are  three  or  four  other  species  of  pine  that  blend 
their  plumes  with  each  other  and  with  the  foliage  of 
the  hardwood  trees,  and  which  fill  the  air  with  incense. 


i8         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

On  the  high  mountains  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge 
are  yet  to  be  found  grand  primeval  forests  of 
mingled  pines  and  hardwood  trees;  but  the  trees 
of  the  Blue  Ridge,  though  there  are  noble  ex- 
ceptions, are  generally  small,  the  forests  here  being 
sweet  rather  than  majestic.  And  how  sweet  they 
are! 

Of  the  numberless  hardwood  trees  that  flourish 
here,  the  oaks  perhaps  stand  first  because  of  their 
numbers  and  the  many  forms  in  which  they  appear, 
from  the  lordly  white  oak  to  the  little  ridiculous  jack 
oak.  Conspicuous  among  them  is  that  large  tree  that 
looks  so  like  a  chestnut,  but  which  the  native  assures 
the  newcomer  is  an  oak,  unanswerably  clinching  the 
argument  with  the  information  that  "hit  grows 
acorns,"  and  with  patience  one  learns  in  time  to  tell 
a  chestnut  leaf  from  the  leaf  of  a  chestnut  oak.  A 
generation  ago  the  foothills  and  the  lower  mountains 
were  covered  with  chestnut  trees,  some  of  them  of 
enormous  size.  But  these  are  gone,  only  a  few  stumps 
broad  enough  for  a  cabin  floor  remaining  to  tell  the 
tale  of  the  past.  Where  are  they?  The  reckless  wood 
cutter  is  not  to  blame  this  time,  for  there  descended 
upon  the  chestnuts  a  blight  that  in  a  few  years  wiped 
them  out  until  not  a  bearing  tree  was  left  on  the 
lower  slopes,  though  at  higher  levels  they  are  yet  so 
abundant  that  one  looking  at  the  mountains  in  early 
summer  can  clearly  trace  the  ravines  down  their 
slopes  by  the  rivers  of  chestnut  bloom  that  brim 
them.  The  mountaineer's  method  of  gathering 
chestnuts  is  characteristic.    Going  into  the  woods 


THE   FOREST  19 

with  an  axe,  he  selects  a  tree  loaded  with  ripe  nuts 
and  chops  it  down. 

The  most  beautiful  as  well  as  the  most  valuable  of 
the  hardwood  trees  here  is  the  noble  tulip-tree,  pop- 
lar the  people  call  it,  whose  grand,  clean  gray  column 
rises  out  of  the  forest,  the  crown  of  bright  green 
leaves  overtopping  all  but  the  tallest  of  the  pines. 
Liriodendron,  the  pretty  botanical  name  of  the  tulip- 
tree,  means  a  tree  bearing  lilies.  And  looking  far  up 
to  the  crown  of  this  forest  giant  as  its  leaves  unfold 
in  early  spring,  one  discovers  that  it  indeed  bears 
lilies,  —  upright,  green  and  orange  lilies,  one  on  the 
end  of  each  twig.  In  the  autumn  when  the  great  trees 
stand  leafless,  each  twig  holds  aloft  a  golden  urn,  the 
seed-pod,  that  remains  in  place,  a  unique  and  charm- 
ing decoration,  until  the  following  spring.  There  is 
something  of  romance  attaching  to  these  trees  that 
stand  so  lordly  and  alone  in  our  forests.  They  belong 
to  a  genus  of  which  there  are  only  two  species  in  all 
the  world,  one  in  the  eastern  United  States,  the  other 
in  Asia.  We  have  one  tulip-tree,  China  has  the 
other. 

Of  course  hickories,  maples,  elms,  beeches,  birches, 
and  many  other  trees  abound,  although  we  lack  the 
beautiful  "American  elm"  that  so  adorns  the  old 
New  England  villages  and  lends  romance  to  North- 
ern valleys.  And  the  spectral  white  birch  is  not  with 
us.  But  the  sugar-maple,  —  "  sugar- tree  "  the  native 
here  calls  it,  —  abundant  in  some  regions,  sweetens 
the  corn-pone  of  the  mountaineer  as  agreeably  as  in 
the  cold  North  it  embellishes  the  buckwheat  cakes 


20         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

of  a  winter's  morning.  The  sugar-trees  might  yield 
a  good  profit  to  thrifty  harvesters,  but  the  time- 
honored  method  of  chopping  a  hole  in  the  trunk  and 
sticking  in  a  bit  of  bark  to  conduct  the  sap  into  a 
wooden  trough  on  the  ground,  although  time-sav- 
ing, does  not  produce  results  that  command  fancy 
prices,  particularly  as  the  rest  of  the  process  is  equally 
free  and  easy.  The  troughs  stand  on  the  ground 
through  the  remainder  of  the  year  collecting  water, 
twigs,  leaves,  and  anything  else  that  may  chance  to 
fall  into  them.  In  the  winter  all  this  freezes  into  a 
solid  cake  which  the  practical  mountaineer  has  dis- 
covered can  be  turned  out  whole,  thus  giving  less 
trouble  than  any  other  method  of  cleaning  the 
troughs.  Maple-sugar  as  made  in  the  mountains 
may  be  black  in  color  and  diversified  with  many 
strong  flavors,  but  the  people  have  a  pretty  way  of 
running  it  into  empty  eggshells,  where  it  hardens, 
and  can  then  be  handed  about  and  carried  in  the 
pocket  with  more  regard  to  cleanliness  than  is  ap- 
parent in  any  other  part  of  its  history. 

The  stately  wild  cherry,  or  "mahogany,'.'  of  the 
mountains,  like  the  black  walnut,  has  all  but  van- 
ished, its  virtues  being  its  undoing.  Of  the  trees,  un- 
known to  the  North,  that  one  finds  here,  the  most 
notable  is  the  magnolia  that  lights  up  the  woods  in 
springtime  with  great  ivory-white  chalices  brimmed 
with  cloying  fragrance.  Walking  in  the  forest  you 
smell  a  penetrating,  sweet  odor  that  causes  you  to 
stand  still  and  search  the  woods  with  your  eyes  until 
you  see  the  white  flowers  shining  in  the  distance. 


THE  FOREST  21 

There  are  several  varieties  of  these  "cucumber"  and 
"umbrella"  trees,  as  the  people  call  them.  Their 
large,  light-green  leaves  placed  in  a  circle  at  the  ends 
of  the  twigs  have  something  of  a  tropical  appear- 
ance, and  there  is  also  clinging  to  them  that  myste- 
rious romance  of  the  East,  for  although  there  are 
some  fifteen  or  more  species  of  this  genus  in  the 
world,  all  of  them  belong  to  eastern  Asia  and  the 
eastern  United  States,  some  four  or  five  species 
being  common  in  our  Southern  mountains. 

Another  tree  which  is  found  only  in  the  Orient 
and  the  eastern  part  of  the  New  World  is  the  sour- 
gum,  pepperidge,  or  tupelo,  whose  dark,  close-ridged 
bark  and  twisted  crown,  weather-beaten  attitude, 
and  somewhat  scanty  foliage  give  it  an  air  of  indi- 
viduality that  could  not  be  dispensed  with  in  the 
sentiment  of  the  forest.  Its  wood  is  so  tough  that 
it  soon  dulls  an  axe,  and  lazy  negroes  were  put  to 
chopping  it  in  slavery  times,  so  the  people  say. 

The  sweet-gum,  or  liquidambar,  also  abundant 
here,  is  not  related  to  the  sour-gum,  but  belongs  to 
the  romantic  witch-hazel  family,  which  perhaps  is 
why  its  juices  are  so  aromatic  —  the  tree  exuding 
copal  at  the  slightest  incision  —  and  why  its  bark  is 
so  curiously  ridged. 

Fortunately  the  larger  gum  trees,  both  sweet  and 
sour,  are  apt  to  be  hollow  at  the  base,  otherwise 
where  would  the  mountaineer  get  his  "bee-gums"? 
And  what  could  replace  in  the  landscape  those  rows 
of  cylindrical  hives,  roofed  with  a  board-end  or  a 
fiat  stone,  that  stand  about  wherever  the  owner 


22         THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

takes  a  notion  to  set  them?  Could  any  honey  go  so 
well  on  hot  corn-bread,  that  came  not  out  of  a  bee- 
gum? 

It  would  be  impossible  within  reasonable  limits 
to  do  justice  to  the  trees  here,  yet  one  could  not 
dismiss  them  without  a  word  concerning  that  be- 
guiling shape  with  the  unfair  name  —  the  sourwood 
or  Oxydendrum  arhoreum,  which  means  the  same  as 
sourwood,  but  sounds  better.  This  ladylike  little 
tree  is  the  most  charming  thing  in  the  woods  when 
its  exquisite  young  leaves  come  out  in  the  spring, 
and  again  in  early  summer  when  it  is  covered  with 
drooping,  handlike  sprays  of  white  flowers  that  look 
like  lilies-of-the-valley,  and  give  forth  a  fragrance 
delicate  yet  so  penetrating  that  one  can  easily  smell 
his  way  through  the  woods  to  a  blossoming  tree, 
where  he  will  find  the  honey  bees  ahead  of  him.  For 
in  addition  to  its  other  virtues  the  sourwood  yields 
the  finest  honey  in  the  mountains,  clear,  delicate, 
white,  and  delicious. 

The  botany  tells  us  that  this  Oxydendrum  is  the 
only  species  of  its  genus,  and  that  it  is  found  only 
in  southeastern  North  America;  which  is  suspicious, 
since  it  has  recently  been  discovered  that  almost  if 
not  all  of  our  plants  hitherto  classed  as  monotypic 
have  species  in  the  Far  East.  So  undoubtedly  our 
pretty  sourwood  has  an  Asiatic  sister  who  sits  smil- 
ing in  some  corner  of  the  Flowery  Kingdom  or  the 
land  of  the  Dragon  or  looks  out  over  some  fair 
Himalayan  height.  It  is  a  pity  it  should  suffer  from 
such  a  name  as  "sourwood"  just  because  its  leaves 


THE  FOREST  23 

are  sour!  —  why  could  It  not  have  been  named  from 
its  lovely  flowers  as  the  silver-bell  tree  was  named 
from  its?  Why  not  call  it  "honey,"  as  the  negroes 
do  those  whom  they  love? 


IV 

THE  SOUTHERN  APPALACHIAN  NATIONAL  PARK 

SINCE  the  easiest  way  for  the  mountaineer  to 
clear  the  land  is  to  girdle  the  trees  and  let  nature 
do  the  rest,  we  everywhere  see  those  dreary  openings 
in  the  forest  known  as  "deadenings,"  where  spectral 
dead  trunks  stand  among  the  growing  corn.  These 
"deadenings"  are  made  and  abandoned  one  after 
another  as  the  thin  soil  wears  out,  which  on  the 
poorer  slopes  happens  in  a  year  or  two.  Hence,  while 
the  mountains  are  yet  covered  with  forests,  the 
clearings  are  everywhere  apparent,  and  in  these  later 
days  are  increasing  with  alarming  rapidity. 

Long  ago  the  Southern  Appalachians  rose  clad 
with  trees  above  a  tree-clad  world.  The  Indian 
roamed  the  dense  primeval  forests,  cultivating  the 
valley  bottoms  and  hunting  in  the  woods.  He  did 
not  destroy  the  trees  —  and  thus  the  balance  be- 
tween man  and  the  forests  was  kept.  Then  came  the 
white  man,  and  wherever  he  set  his  foot  the  tree 
retired.  Wide  fields  of  cotton  and  corn  covered  the 
lowlands,  gardens  and  towns  sprang  up  as  by  magic. 
But  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  the  forest  undis- 
turbed fulfilled  its  old-time  office  of  calling  the  rains 
and  holding  the  rivers  in  leash.  In  time  the  newcomer 
reached  the  mountains  and  made  his  clearings  on  the 
slopes.    He  also  burned  the  woods  each  spring  to 


APPALACHIAN   NATIONAL   PARK     25 

clear  away  the  pine  needles,  and  thus  help  the  grasses 
and  tender  herbs  to  spring  up  as  food  for  his  cattle. 
For  these  reasons  the  young  trees  were  killed,  and 
the  heavy  growth  of  virgin  timber  in  time  gave  place 
to  the  present  open  woods.  Yet  the  forest  was  not 
destroyed;  it  contended  bravely  with  this  strange 
new  foe. 

As  generations  passed,  the  clearings  grew  larger 
and  more  numerous.  Denuded  slopes  appeared,  be- 
came gullied  and  washed,  the  streams  thickened,  they 
grew  shallower  and  lost  their  crystal  clearness  as 
soon  as  they  got  to  the  settled  country.  The  balance 
between  man  and  the  forest  was  being  disturbed. 
But  the  forest  yet  contended  bravely  with  the  de- 
stroyer, and  there  was  always  that  background  of 
inaccessible  high  mountains,  the  birth-chambers  of 
the  streams,  where  the  forests  fulfilled  their  saving 
mission  without  hindrance. 

Then  came  the  lumberman  with  his  portable  saw- 
mill, entering  into  the  very  heart  of  the  forest  ex- 
cepting the  highest  and  wildest  places,  taking  the 
largest  trees,  but  leaving  the  top  branches  and  half 
the  trunk  to  cumber  the  ground  and  offer  food  to  the 
fires  that  invariably  broke  out,  fires  immeasurably 
hotter  and  more  destructive  than  the  ordinary  forest 
fire.  Deeper  and  deeper  into  the  wilderness  pushed 
the  lumberman,  taking  a  small  fraction  of  the  forest 
and  killing  the  rest.  Nature  gave  quick  warning.  Fer- 
tile valley  bottoms  were  overflowed,  and  the  work  of 
man's  hands  was  often  destroyed.  After  seasons  of 
flood  came  seasons  of  low  water,  when  the  rivers 


26         THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

refused  their  help  and  the  mills  shut  down.  "Why  is 
this?"  the  people  asked;  "such  things  never  hap- 
pened before."  Had  they  looked  to  the  mountains 
they  would  have  seen  the  torn,  bare  slopes,  the  sun 
burning  the  dry  earth  where  once  lay  water-soaked 
carpets  of  moss.  The  forest  that  once  covered  the 
mountains  as  with  a  garment,  giving  to  man  not 
only  its  wood,  but  what  one  might  call  its  spiritual 
force  of  adjustment,  was  rapidly  passing  away. 

What  slowly  happened  in  these  mountains  took 
place  more  quickly  in  other  regions  until  the  whole 
country  suddenly  awakened  to  the  fact  that  in  a 
generation  or  two  the  wonderful  forests  of  the  New 
W^orld  would  be  no  more.  The  prosperity  of  a  nation 
depends  also  upon  its  forests.  To  lose  them  is  a 
calamity  too  great  to  be  borne,  as  nearly  every  one 
of  the  European  nations  has  discovered  through  sad 
experience,  —  Spain  in  her  mountains  of  bare  rock 
reflecting  the  sun,  but  not  condensing  the  moisture 
that  causes  the  rains  to  fall,  France  in  destructive 
floods,  Germany  in  lack  of  wood,  all  in  one  or  usu- 
ally many  ways  feeling  the  cessation  of  the  benefi- 
cent work  of  the  forests. 

As  the  population  of  the  world  grew  denser  and 
man  discovered  his  relation  to  the  trees,  and  that  the 
performance  of  their  primal  duty  had  been  fatally 
interfered  with,  he  began  to  bring  back  the  forests, 
a  Herculean  task  now  being  performed  over  the 
whole  of  the  Old  World.  What  has  happened  to 
Europe  is  beginning  to  happen  to  us.  Already  the 
cry  of  the  farmer  is  heard  and  the  complaint  of  the 


APPALACHIAN   NATIONAL   PARK     27 

manufacturer.  Man  has  menaced  the  existence  of 
the  forests  without  stopping  to  consider  the  conse- 
quences. 

The  debt  that  we  of  the  New  World  owe  to  our 
forests  is  apparent  when  we  remember  that  the 
products  of  the  tree  alone  occupy  the  fourth  place  as  a 
source  of  wealth  to  the  nation,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
many  and  invaluable  uses  of  forested  land.  As  civil- 
ization advances  and  all  the  secrets  of  the  earth  are 
opened  up,  as  new  discoveries  are  made  and  new  forces 
harnessed  and  put  to  work,  the  tree  becomes  more 
necessary  instead  of  less.  Its  wood  enters  into  every- 
thing, or  if  it  is  displaced  in  one  industry  it  becomes 
more  necessary  in  another,  one  of  the  latest  discov- 
eries causing  the  destruction  of  such  enormous  quan- 
tities of  wood  that  one  stands  aghast  before  the  facts : 
for  the  worst  menace  to  our  forests  to-day  is  the  all- 
consuming  paper-pulp  mill,  the  most  reckless  tim- 
ber-cutting known  to  history  being  done  in  its  serv- 
ice. This  danger,  which  threatened  the  extinction 
of  our  forests  with  frightful  rapidity,  is  now  to  an 
extent  being  met  by  the  manufacturers  themselves, 
some  of  whom,  realizing  the  extremity  to  which  they 
will  soon  be  brought  under  existing  conditions,  are 
beginning  to  provide  for  their  own  future  by  reforest- 
ing the  cut-over  lands.  But  even  at  the  best  the 
tremendous  demands  of  the  pulp-mills  are  believed 
to  be  a  menace  to  the  forests  of  the  nation,  and 
we  should  be  made  more  unhappy  at  the  prospect 
ahead  if  it  were  not  for  our  experience  with  other 
threatened  dangers,  bogies  like  the  diminishing  sup- 


28         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

ply  of  nitrates,  mineral  fuel,  and  phosphates  which 
darkly  haunted  the  imagination  a  short  time  ago 
only  to  vanish  before  the  searchlight  of  science. 
Even  now  the  form  of  the  giant  bamboo  is  hovering 
on  the  horizon,  and  if  the  stately  Oriental  or  our  own 
cornstalks  do  not  feed  to  repletion  the  voracious 
maw  of  the  paper-mill,  hope  assures  us  that  some- 
thing else  will  arrive  to  do  it  before  our  grand  forests 
have  sent  their  last  sigh  over  the  valleys  and  moun- 
tains of  the  New  World.  Which  distant  hope  does 
not  lessen  our  present  responsibility ;  and  it  is  consol- 
ing to  know  that  the  whole  country  is  waking  up  to 
the  need  of  preserving  our  forests  before  it  is  too 
late,  vigorous  and  effective  means  having  in  many 
places  already  been  taken  to  that  effect,  state  law 
and  the  growing  intelligence  of  private  owners 
combining  to  place  large  tracts  of  woodland  under 
the  care  of  trained  foresters. 

How  many  of  us  realize  that  well  within  a  genera- 
tion there  have  been  created  more  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  national  forests  in  the  United  States,  em- 
bracing over  one  hundred  and  ninety  million  acres? 
Besides  this  a  dozen  states  have  already  adopted  the 
policy  of  creating  state  forests,  and  as  proof  of  the 
vital  interest  taken  In  the  subject,  more  than  a  score 
of  universities  and  colleges  are  now  providing  courses 
in  forestry.  The  public  schools  are  also  beginning  to 
give  instruction  in  the  underlying  principles  of  for- 
estry, thus  preparing  the  future  citizens  of  the 
nation.  Indeed,  who  to-day  can  escape  knowing  the 
meaning  and  value  of  the  forests  ?  Even  the  Southern 


APPALACHIAN   NATIONAL   PARK       29 

mountaineer  Is  seeing  a  new  light.  The  appearance 
of  gullies  that  ruin  his  land,  the  washing-away  of  his 
soil,  the  drowning  of  his  valleys,  the  drying-upof  his 
life-giving  springs,  these  things  he  is  beginning  to 
notice  with  consternation  and  to  ask  the  reason  why, 
so  that  the  race  will  soon  have  passed  to  which  be- 
longs the  man  who  recently  declared  that  in  his 
opinion  the  people  would  be  better  off  if  there  was 
not  a  tree  on  the  mountains.  Of  course  what  he  saw 
in  imagination  was  a  land  covered  with  grain-fields, 
but  he  is  discovering  that  the  destruction  of  the  trees 
is  not  followed  by  fertile  acres;  in  short,  that  his 
beloved  mountains  were  not  designed  by  nature  for 
grain-fields. 

The  inaccessibility  of  the  Southern  mountains  long 
saved  them,  and  now,  thanks  to  the  new  impulse, 
the  Southern  Appalachians  will  escape,  to  an  extent, 
at  least,  the  most  serious  dangers  of  lumbering, 
though  they  can  no  longer  escape  the  lumber- 
man, who  is  swinging  his  axe  on  the  most  "inaccess- 
ible" coves  and  peaks  of  the  Great  Smokies  them- 
selves, "the  largest  lumber  company  in  the  world" 
having  recently  purchased  an  enormous  tract  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  acres  of  virgin  forest  in 
the  North  Carolina  mountains,  forests  containing, 
besides  spruce  and  hemlock,  some  of  the  finest  hard- 
wood trees  ever  grown  here,  notable  among  which 
are  tulip  and  cherry,  the  latter  having  long  since 
been  removed  from  the  more  accessible  forests.  But 
fortunately  this  lumber  company,  in  its  methods  of 
handling  the  trees,  belongs  to  the  new  era.    Under 


30         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

its  administration  there  will  be  no  waste.  Those 
great  piles  of  sawdust  left  by  the  old-time  sawmill, 
as  well  as  all  other  remainders,  will  be  converted  at  a 
central  station  into  electric  power  to  run  all  the  mills 
and  factories  from  which  the  waste  is  produced, 
besides  leaving  some  to  help  run  the  enormous  pulp- 
mill  recently  erected  in  the  Pigeon  River  Valley,  a 
few  miles  west  of  Asheville.  The  use  of  electricity 
in  running  the  machinery  vastly  reduces  the  danger 
from  fire,  as  does  also  cleaning  up  the  waste  in  the 
woods,  while  yet  more  to  diminish  the  danger  the  cut- 
over  forests  are  to  be  under  the  care  of  a  fire  guard. 
While  the  new  conscience  is  thus  working  in  priv- 
ate ways,  the  people  as  a  whole  have  become  alive 
to  the  importance  of  saving  certain  parts  of  the  long 
Appalachian  watershed  from  the  possibility  of  denu- 
dation ;  hence  there  has  grown  up  so  urgent  a  demand 
for  a  national  forest  in  the  East,  comparable  to  those 
forests  with  which  the  West  for  various  reasons  is  so 
amply  provided,  that  a  bill  has  finally  passed  through 
the  United  States  Congress  making  the  foundation 
of  such  a  domain  possible.  This,  the  Weeks  Bill,  be- 
came a  law  March  i,  191 1,  and  now  there  is  in 
process  of  construction  a  great  forest  reservation, 
part  of  which  is  to  be  in  the  White  Mountains  of 
New  Hampshire,  part  in  the  mountains  of  Mary- 
land, West  Virginia,  Virginia,  Tennessee,  North 
Carolina,  South  Carolina,  and  Georgia,  and  whose 
function  shall  be  forever  to  protect  the  cradles  of  the 
great  rivers  that  are  born  on  the  slopes  of  these 
mountains. 


APPALACHIAN   NATIONAL  PARK       31 

The  largest  and  most  important  part  of  the 
southern  division  of  the  new  national  forest  will  lie 
in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina,  since  from  them 
are  thrown  off  as  from  a  common  centre  the  princi- 
pal feeders  to  many  of  the  great  rivers  that  cross  the 
southern  plains  to  the  Atlantic  on  the  east,  and  run 
to  the  Ohio  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  east  of  the 
Mississippi  River  on  the  west. 

The  first  purchase  made  after  the  passing  of  the 
Weeks  Bill  was  in  North  Carolina,  where  in  Decem- 
ber of  191 1,  eighteen  thousand,  five  hundred  acres 
of  land  in  the  district  of  Mount  Mitchell  on  the 
watershed  of  the  Catawba  River  became  the  nucleus 
of  the  Southern  Appalachian  National  Park,  for  the 
immediate  further  extension  of  which  lands  are 
under  consideration  in  the  Nantahala,  Mount 
Mitchell,  and  Pisgah  areas. 

The  coming  of  the  national  park  means  more  than 
the  preservation  of  the  forests;  it  means  the  opening 
of  a  glorious  pleasure-ground  in  the  eastern  part  of 
our  continent,  how  glorious  a  pleasure-ground  no  one 
can  know  who  has  not  climbed  these  flowery  slopes 
so  exquisitely  warmed  by  the  sun  and  cooled  by  the 
wind.  The  more  stupendous  aspects  of  nature  are 
wanting  here.  Those  majestic  snow-clad  peaks, 
those  abysmal  gorges,  those  rocks  of  blazing  hue, 
those  geysers  and  natural  bridges,  those  strange 
geological  formations  and  petrified  forests,  —  all 
those  marvels  of  a  younger  age  that  call  the  world 
to  our  Western  parks,  —  no  longer  any  of  them  exist 
here,  for  these  ancient  mountains,  the  oldest  in  the 


32         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

country,  perhaps  in  the  world,  have  passed  through 
the  wonder  stages  of  geological  youth  and  moved  on 
into  the  calm  old  age  of  mountain  life. 

But  the  older  mountains  have  beauties  of  their 
own,  and  our  new  park  can  offer  attractions  that  the 
parks  of  the  West,  where  nature  has  wrought  in  so 
dramatic  and  expansive  a  mood,  cannot  offer.  For 
one  thing,  nowhere  else  is  nature  so  friendly.  The 
world  is  beautiful,  with  here  and  there  touches  of 
grandeur,  and  one  may  traverse  the  fragrant  forests 
alone  and  without  fear.  Nor  is  it  necessary  to  make 
long  and  extensive  preparations  to  explore  these 
ancient  heights :  it  is  enough  to  start  out  with  a  tiny 
knapsack  and  walk  away,  sure  of  a  welcome  wherever 
night  overtakes  you.  There  are  great  free  spaces  of 
forest,  mountains,  and  sky,  but  at  intervals  there  is 
always  the  clearing  and  the  home  of  the  settler,  the 
most  hospitable  of  created  beings,  and  to  the  student 
of  human  nature  one  of  the  most  interesting.  Even 
in  the  widest  reaches  of  the  park,  the  home  of  the 
mountaineer  will  be  found  in  some  intruding  cove 
or  little  valley,  while  there  are  no  sweeter  camping- 
grounds  in  all  the  world  than  those  offered  by  this 
exquisite  country  of  flowers,  fragrances,  cold  springs, 
and  cool  summer  nights,  not  only  to  the  robust 
hunter  and  fisherman,  but  as  well  to  frailer  lovers  of 
nature. 

But  the  new  park,  large  as  it  doubtless  is  destined 
to  be,  after  all  will  cover  but  a  small  portion  of  the 
mountain  region,  and  finally  it  is  the  people  them- 
selves who  must  keep  the  country  beautiful.   And 


APPALACHIAN   NATIONAL   PARK       33 

this  the  canny  mountaineer  will  do  as  soon  as  he 
recovers  from  his  ancient  fear  of  the  forest  and 
learns  the  new  value  of  the  tree.  Among  the  most 
ardent  workers  for  the  passing  of  the  Weeks  Bill  and 
for  the  Appalachian  Park  appropriation  have  been 
natives  of  these  mountains,  men  of  intellect  and  cul- 
ture who  have  thrown  all  their  strength  into  the 
contest,  and  who  are  still  working  for  the  good  of 
the  forests. 

The  primeval  forests  must  go.  The  older  trees  con- 
tinually go  anyway,  for,  excepting  those  marvels  of 
our  Far  West,  the  trees  grow  old,  die,  and  fall.  But 
they  need  not  go  all  at  once,  and  under  intelligent 
care  new  forests  may  take  the  place  of  the  old  so 
continually  and  so  skillfully  that  we  need  not  be 
conscious  of  the  passing  of  the  ancient  groves. 
Every  one  owning  land  in  these  mountains  should 
remember  that  it  is  also  the  sacred  and  inalienable 
right  of  the  tree  to  bestow  beauty  on  the  landscape, 
and  that  the  law  reads:  "Blessed  is  he  who  saves  a 
noble  tree  or  preserves  a  grove  on  the  mountain- top." 

The  lumberman,  upon  coming  to  a  monarch  of 
the  forest  so  placed  that  it  could  survive  the  removal 
of  the  trees  about  it,  should  look  at  it  with  the  eye  of 
prophecy  and  pass  by,  leaving  it  to  delight  those  who 
are  on  their  way  to  the  mountains,  that  vast  army  of 
pleasure-seekers  whose  coming  will  open  up  every 
beauty  spot  in  the  wilderness  and  also  bring  to  the 
inhabitants  of  these  noble  heights  a  material  wealth 
vying  with  that  in  the  forests  themselves.  In  these 
days  of  fast-moving  events  every  feller  of  trees  in  the 


34         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

North  Carolina  mountains  ought  also  to  exercise 
the  functions  of  a  landscape  gardener.  No  one  asks 
that  great  tracts  of  primeval  forest  be  kept  for  sen- 
timent, but  one  does  ask  that  certain  portions  of 
exceptionally  beautiful  tracts  lying  along  the  most 
frequented  routes  of  travel  be  hedged  about  by 
some  protecting  power. 

Moreover,  on  the  slopes  of  those  ridges  that  stand 
at  imposing  or  beautiful  points  of  view,  the  trees 
should  be  kept  to  preserve  those  picturesque  sky- 
lines so  characteristic  of  these  mountains  and  which 
are  disappearing  with  startling  rapidity.  It  is  asking 
too  much  that  we  wait  a  hundred  years  for  the  trees 
to  grow  again  before  we  can  enjoy  the  pictures  that 
have  made  the  mountains  in  their  early  days  so 
enchanting,  and  the  destruction  of  which  brings, 
comparatively  speaking,  so  small  a  return.  It  is  easy 
to  cut  a  big  tree,  but  we  must  wait  a  century  or  two 
to  get  it  back  again,  and  who  of  us  can  afford  that? 

The  genius  of  man  has  overcome  the  uttermost 
defenses  of  nature,  and  to-day  the  triumphant  saw- 
mill shrieks  and  devours  in  every  stronghold  of  the 
mountains.  The  high  places,  the  birth-chambers 
of  the  rivers,  have  struck  their  colors  before  the 
advance  of  the  enemy.  The  sceptre  has  long  since 
fallen  from  the  hand  of  the  red  man.  His  successor 
roams  the  forest  for  pleasure,  and  also  puts  it  to  a 
thousand  uses  the  aborigine  did  not  so  much  as 
dream  of;  but  the  wisdom  of  the  invader  is  such  that 
he  can  if  he  will  use  the  forest  and  yet  preserve  it, 
strengthen  it,  enhance  its  beauty,  and  increase  its 


APPALACHIAN   NATIONAL   PARK       35 

efficiency  while  even  curtailing  its  area,  and  he  will, 
let  us  hope,  transform  our  Southern  mountains  with 
the  intelligence  of  his  higher  reason,  supplanting  the 
charm  of  wildness  with  the  grace  of  beauty.  Thus 
the  triumphant  forests  will  continue  to  fold  these 
ancient  heights  in  their  protecting  mantle,  they  will 
beckon  the  rains  to  come,  and  steady  the  long  rivers 
that  flow  to  the  sea. 

Lovely,  indeed,  are  the  forests. 


V 

HOW   SPRING   COMES   IN   THE   SOUTHERN 
MOUNTAINS 

IT  comes  slowly,  which  is  its  unique  charm.  In 
the  North  the  spring  holds  back,  then  comes 
with  a  rush,  tumbles  its  treasures  in  a  heap  at  your 
feet,  and  is  gone.  Here  the  spirit  of  the  South  pre- 
vails, and  the  spring  gradually  unfolds  for  three 
months,  rising  in  a  strong,  slow  tide  that  finally 
breaks  over  the  land  in  a  tremendous  flood  of  color 
and  fragrance  and  song. 

As  early  as  February  the  alders  wake  up  and  shake 
out  their  tassels.  Small,  dark-purple  violets  peep 
out  from  the  dead  leaves  of  the  woods.  The  deli- 
cious fragrance  that  comes  and  goes  you  quickly 
trace  to  the  clumps  of  brown-capped,  purple  little 
flowers  of  the  Carolina  pine-sap  that  are  pushing  up 
everywhere  in  the  woods.  The  tops  of  the  maple 
trees  kindle  to  fire,  and  the  colors  of  the  leafless  twigs 
everywhere  begin  to  brighten. 

As  March  draws  near,  that  illusive  spring  feeling 
gets  into  the  air,  and  that  odor  of  spring  that  so 
powerfully  exhales  from  nothing  in  particular.  The 
peeping  of  frogs  is  heard,  and  up  the  wind  come  the 
voices  of  the  people  unconsciously  singing  the  uni- 
versal hymn  of  spring. 

The  trees  are  suddenly  alive  with  birds.  They,  too, 


HOW  SPRING  COMES  37 

have  felt  that  monition  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  are 
on  their  way  from  the  Far  South  to  the  Far  North. 
Flocks  of  robins  and  bluebirds  appear  as  by  magic, 
then,  along  with  other  flocks  that  have  spent  the 
winter  with  us,  they  vanish,  off,  no  doubt,  to  build 
their  nests  in  more  northern  climes. 

The  chickadee,  the  titmouse,  the  nuthatch,  the 
junco,  the  pine  warbler,  and  many  another  lovely 
guest  that  has  fed  from  our  porch  railing  all  winter, 
now  share  with  flocks  of  migrants  that  remain  with 
us  a  few  days  at  a  time.  Birds  on  all  sides  are  ecstat- 
ically singing.  What  marvelous  outpourings  come 
from  that  most  joyful  of  songsters,  the  Carolina 
wren!  Suddenly  a  new  note  is  heard  in  the  chorus 
that  has  broken  out  everywhere,  the  veery  has  dis- 
covered the  coming  of  spring.  A  flock  of  song  spar- 
rows alighting  in  a  budding  tree-top  all  begin  to  sing 
at  once,  until  it  seems  as  though  the  tree  had  sud- 
denly blossomed  out  in  a  bouquet  of  song.  New  life 
thrills  the  cardinal  bird,  who  pours  forth  love-notes 
as  he  flashes,  a  streak  of  fire,  through  the  air.  Finches, 
tanagers,  creepers,  chats,  woodpeckers,  —  birds, 
red,  yellow,  blue,  and  green,  show  like  flowers  among 
the  trees,  some  to  pass  on,  some  to  remain  with  us 
through  the  summer. 

The  peach  trees  have  burst  into  bloom,  and  on 
the  ground  in  the  woods  you  find  clusters  of  pink- 
tipped  buds  and  a  few  white  blossoms  peeping  out 
from  the  evergreen  leaves  of  the  arbutus  that  car- 
pets the  woods  in  places.  This  is  the  beginning  of 
a  procession  of  flowers  that  might  bewilder  one  in  a 


38         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

more  hasty  climate,  but  here  there  is  also  opulence 
in  the  matter  of  time.  There  is  no  hurry.  The  "pret- 
ties," as  the  children  here  call  all  flowers,  will  linger 
day  after  day,  week  after  week.  Anemones,  trilliums, 
ginger,  eyebrights,  violets,  adder's-tongue,  blood- 
root,  hepaticas,  all  one's  old  friends  have  suddenly 
appeared  as  well  as  many  a  lovely  stranger.  All 
one's  old  friends  would  still  be  here  if  one  came  from 
the  South  instead  of  the  North,  for  these  mountains 
are  a  centre  for  the  flora  of  the  different  sections  of 
the  country. 

There  are  certain  flowers  whose  coming  marks  an 
era  in  spring  itself,  not  because  of  their  size  or  bril- 
liancy, but  because  of  some  inherent  quality  that 
charms.  Such  a  flower  is  the  Iris  verna.  One  thinks 
of  the  irises  as  inhabiting  wet  places,  but  not  so 
this  one,  which  grows  everywhere  in  the  dry  woods, 
so  charming  a  thing  that  having  seen  it  one  ever 
after  associates  it  with  the  beauty  of  these  forest 
floors.  You  watch  as  eagerly  for  the  first  iris  as  for 
the  first  arbutus.  It  is  only  three  or  four  inches  high, 
its  color  a  clear  amethyst  blue,  and  besides  being 
so  lovely  to  look  at,  it  is  perfumed  like  a  hothouse 
violet;  that  is  to  say,  the  variety  with  a  touch  of 
orange-yellow  near  the  centre  is  so  perfumed.  There 
is  one  with  a  white  centre,  more  delicate  in  color  and 
contour  than  the  other,  a  dream  of  beauty  as  one 
looks  across  gardens  of  it  on  some  mountain-side, 
but  it  has  no  fragrance. 

With  the  Iris  verna  appears  the  bird's-foot  violet, 
also  in  the  dry  woods  and  pale  violet-blue  in  color. 


HOW  SPRING  COMES  39 

Poised  on  a  long  stem  with  its  lovely  face  held  up 
to  the  sky,  this  large  calm  violet  lends  peculiar 
charm  to  the  woods  among  the  grays  and  delicate 
young  greens  of  the  forest  floor. 

While  the  irises  and  violets  are  yet  in  bloom  the 
heavy  buds  of  the  pink  azaleas  slowly  expand,  the 
scales  open,  and  airy  flowers  emerge  in  bright  clus- 
ters that  light  up  shady  corners  in  the  woods  and 
brim  the  forest  with  their  faint,  refreshing  fragrance. 
Like  all  the  rest  they  linger  long.  There  is  no  hurry. 

About  the  time  that  the  pink  azaleas  begin  to 
open,  the  earliest  of  the  rhododendrons  —  those  that 
tapestry  the  damp  walls  of  the  ravines  with  patterns 
of  twisted  limbs  and  thick  evergreen  leaves  —  be- 
come embroidered  with  clusters  of  blush-rose  and 
cream-white  blossoms. 

But  there  are  other  signs  of  spring  than  the  coming 
of  birds  and  flowers.  As  the  season  advances,  thfe 
dark  tracery  of  the  trees  becomes  intermingled  with 
many  colors  as  young  leaves  bud  out  of  the  stiff  twigs 
and  rival  the  flowers  in  beauty.  As  you  now  look 
off  at  the  mountains,  new  colors  appear  among  the 
dark  pine  trees.  Pale  green  creeps  daintily  up  the 
ravines  proclaiming  the  awakening  of  the  tulip- 
trees.  Budding  hardwood  trees  everywhere  mingle 
delicate  shades  of  pink  and  yellow  and  silver-white, 
soft  greens,  and  bronze-reds,  with  the  dark  green  of 
the  pines.  The  forest  is  transformed,  it  gives  the 
impression  of  one  wreathed  in  smiles.  The  tide  of 
life  is  rising  strongly  though  yet  slowly. 

The  mountains,  most  of  the  time  enveloped  in  a 


40         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

soft  haze,  seem  far  away  and  unreal.  The  air  is 
saturated  with  odors  distilled  from  the  earth  and  the 
tree- tops;  fragrance  streams  as  it  were  from  the 
pores  of  things,  and  the  aroma  of  the  budding  for- 
est ascends  like  incense  from  the  earth. 

Although  the  early  spring  is  so  ethereal  in  its 
beauty,  shortly  after  the  blossoming  of  the  peach 
trees  a  remarkable  change  takes  place  in  the  general 
coloring  of  the  landscape.  The  first  delicacy  and 
tenderness  are  for  a  time  replaced  by  emerald  green 
and  other  greens  so  strongly  tinted  with  yellow  as  to 
need  all  the  weight  of  the  darker  pines  and  the  more 
sombre  of  the  hardwood  trees  to  tone  down  the 
vividness  of  the  coloring.  Pictures  made  at  this  time 
are  laughed  at  and  called  impossible  by  those  who 
have  not  been  here  to  see  how  much  gayer  the  real- 
ity is  than  any  brush  could  paint.  Yet  above  all 
this  riot,  the  forest,  serene  and  enchanting,  smiles 
like  a  sedate  mother  at  the  gay  spirits  of  her  children. 
In  course  of  time  these  brilliant  hues  tone  down 
and  blend  together. 

As  the  season  advances,  the  earth  puts  forth 
blossoms  more  and  more  freely.  Those  banks  of  snow 
that  fill  whole  ravines,  those  white  ghosts  that  glim- 
mer in  the  woods,  are  the  white-flowering  dogwood 
trees  in  bloom.  Those  rifts  of  rosy  red  along  the  ra- 
vines and  on  the  slopes  are  the  close-set  blossoms 
of  the  Judas-tree  or  red-bud  that  open  at  just  this 
moment  as  though  to  heighten  the  effect  of  the  snowy 
dogwood.  The  pines  wake  up  with  the  other  growths. 
They  are  always  green,  it  is  true,  but  they  have 


HOW  SPRING   COMES  41 

something  in  reserve  for  spring,  every  plume  be- 
coming tipped  with  fresh  color  as  the  petalless 
flowers,  and  later  the  groups  of  young  needles,  push 
out  to  the  light.  With  the  severe  forms  of  the  pines 
thus  wreathed  in  garlands  of  spring,  the  transforma- 
tion of  the  woods  is  complete. 

Throughout  this  enticing  season  it  is  impossible 
to  stay  indoors.  Household  cares  by  some  divine 
alchemy  are  transmuted  into  unimportant  details 
of  the  real  life.  Urgent  business,  it  is  discovered, 
can  just  as  well  wait  until  to-morrow.  There  is  no 
hurry.  The  real  duty  of  the  moment  is  to  walk 
abroad,  or  drive,  or  ride  a  gentle  horse  through  the 
mazes  of  the  awakening  world.  Wherever  one  goes 
flowers  greet  the  eye,  violets,  pinks,  saxifrages,  col- 
umbines —  flowers  familiar  and  flowers  new.  Gay 
butterflies  are  dancing  about  them  like  flowers  with 
wings,  and  bright  birds  are  singing  everywhere. 

You  climb  the  mountains  to  look  for  orchids  and 
lilies  and  other  rare  blossoms.  And  many  a  time  you 
traverse  the  lovely  Pacolet  Valley  at  the  foot  of 
Tryon  Mountain,  not  only  to  see  the  flowers,  but 
because  of  the  delicate  beauty  that  crowns  it  as  a 
whole.  For  with  its  gentle,  inclosing  mountains, 
with  the  wonderful  light  filling  it  to  the  brim,  with 
the  exquisite  colors  that  in  the  early  morning  and 
towards  night,  and  at  certain  times  even  at  midday, 
seem  to  convert  the  solid  substance  of  the  earth  into 
an  enchanting  dream  fabric,  it  is  one  of  those  crea- 
tions of  nature  that  have  given  us  our  poetic  fancies 
of  super-earthly  beauty.  And  it  was  here,  in  the  valley 


42         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

at  Lynn,  that  Sidney  Lanier,  who  sang  with  In- 
spired soul  of  the  dawn  he  so  loved,  of  the  trees, 
the  marshes,  the  sky ;  —  it  was  here  In  the  beautiful 
valley  that  America's  most  tuneful  poet  "waited  for 
the  dawn  "  through  that  last  night  of  pain  on  earth. 

As  you  go  about  in  the  season  of  flowers,  you  can 
trace  the  water-courses  by  the  white  foam  of  the 
silver-bell  tree  standing  close-ranked,  every  twig 
and  branch  fringed  with  delicate  white  bells.  And 
when  you  approach  a  ford  or  a  stream  you  may  see 
the  earth  hidden  under  the  dainty  little  shrub 
yellow-root  with  its  charming  foliage  and  its  lace- 
work  of  small  purple-brown  flowers,  a  plant  whose 
decorative  value  Is  well  known  to  the  landscape  gar- 
dener, who  masses  it  along  his  roadways  and  under 
his  trees,  but  which  perhaps  he  may  not  always 
know  Is  a  monotypic  genus,  Its  only  species  being 
found  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  New  World ;  — 
according  to  the  botanies,  though  the  wiseacres  will 
shake  their  heads  at  this,  and  point  a  prophetic 
finger  across  the  globe  to  the  Celestial  Empire  that 
to-day  Is  so  fast  giving  up  Its  many  hoarded  secrets. 

That  waft  of  refreshing  fragrance  comes  from  the 
fringe-bush  whose  loose  clusters  of  lacy  white  flow- 
ers you  see  on  the  opposite  bank.  What  Is  more  sig- 
nificant than  this  dainty  and  exquisite  thing  growing 
securely  on  the  wild  mountain-side?  And  how  came 
it  here  when  all  other  members  of  its  family  live 
in  that  remote  Chinese  Empire  so  mysteriously 
connected  with  us  through  the  life  of  the  plants? 
What  was  the  bond  that  united  us  in  past  geologic 


HOW  SPRING   COMES  43 

ages?  And  what  tore  those  tender  flowers  asunder, 
separating  them  by  continents  and  vast  seas? 

When  blossom  the  blackberry  bushes  that  crowd 
into  every  cleared  spot  and  border  the  paths  and 
the  roads,  it  is  worth  while  going  out  just  to  see 
them,  though  it  would  be  impossible  to  go  out 
without  seeing  them,  for  the  hedgerows  everywhere 
are  white  like  banks  of  snow.  At  their  blooming- 
time  in  April  or  early  May  comes  a  cold  storm  called 
the  "blackberry-blossom  storm,"  as  a  similar  spell 
of  bad  weather  in  the  North  when  the  apple  trees 
are  out  is  called  the  "apple-blossom  storm." 

About  Traumfest  the  blackberry  has  a  rival  in 
the  Japanese  honeysuckle,  that,  having  escaped  from 
the  gardens,  densely  covers  banks  and  open  places. 
Red  clay  evidently  suits  it.  It  buries  a  stone  wall 
or  a  fence  in  a  year  or  two,  blossoms  tremendously, 
and  loads  the  air  with  its  delicious  perfume.  But 
out  in  the  woods  you  will  find  a  wild  honeysuckle 
as  lovely  and  as  fragrant  as  its  Japanese  cousin  and 
with  blossoms  greatly  resembling  it,  reminding  us  of 
that  mysterious  relationship  between  the  plants  of 
the  East  and  the  West;  only  it  is  less  importunate 
than  its  imported  relative,  it  does  not  smother  the 
earth,  but  twines  about  the  bushes  in  a  modest 
manner,  and  its  beautiful  white  flowers  have  richer 
tones  of  yellow  and  are  sometimes  flushed  with  pink. 
The  red  trumpet  honeysuckle,  loved  by  every  child, 
also  twines  about  the  bushes  on  the  mountain-side 
in  company  with  other  beautiful  and  fragrant  mem- 
bers of  the  same  family. 


44         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

The  heavy  curtains  of  leucothoe  that  hang  over 
the  water-courses  have  become  embroidered  with 
long  white  flower  spikes.  And  walking  at  higher 
levels  you  will  come  across  the  little  umbrella-leaf 
with  its  uplifted  head  of  white  flowers.  You  might 
not  notice  it  among  the  wealth  of  more  striking  blos- 
soms all  about  you,  but  you  will  never  pass  it  un- 
heeding when  you  remember  that  there  is  only  one 
other  known  species  of  its  family,  and  that  that 
one  opens  its  flowers  in  far-away  Japan. 

If  interested  in  these  curious  relationships,  you 
will  find  on  these  mountains  many  a  modest  flower 
whose  genealogy  is  inextricably  intertwined  with 
the  flowers  of  the  Orient.  In  this  mysterious  sister- 
hood is  the  wistaria  that  so  often  adorns  our  homes 
and  which  is  most  closely  connected  in  our  thoughts 
with  Japan,  which  we  imagine  ever  wreathed  in 
wistaria  blossoms,  as  we  see  them  twining  about  the 
screens  and  the  drawings  that  come  from  that  far  land 
to  us.  It  is  the  Japanese  wistaria  we  cultivate  and 
with  which  we  are  familiar,  though  we  ourselves 
have  one  member  of  this  very  ornamental  family. 
You  will  come  upon  our  wistaria  sometime  in  your 
wanderings  in  the  lower  mountains,  where  it  will 
be  seen  climbing  the  trees  and  covering  them  with 
its  mantle  of  leaves  and  its  myriads  of  close  bunches 
of  purple-blue  flowers,  a  charming  thing  whose 
day  among  the  petted  darlings  of  the  garden  doubt- 
less yet  will  come. 

Of  course,  growing  everywhere  over  the  moun- 
tains, though  more  abundantly  and  of  larger  size 


HOW  SPRING  COMES  45 

in  the  higher  mountains,  is  the  highly  prized  galax, 
whose  silky  round  leaves,  green  in  summer,  and  rich 
wine-red  in  winter  and  spring,  have  taken  the  fancy 
of  the  city  florist,  sometimes  to  the  discomfiture  of 
the  collector,  who  gets  large  orders  for  wine-red 
leaves  in  the  summer  from  haughty  florists  who  can- 
not be  induced  to  believe  that  red  galax  leaves,  like 
red  currants,  have  their  season.  One  can  have  no 
idea  what  a  really  charming  thing  the  galax  is  until 
one  sees  it  thickly  carpeting  the  woods.  And  what 
one  never  discovers,  from  seeing  it  in  the  stiff  circles 
with  which  it  surrounds  the  city  nosegay,  is  that  in 
the  early  summer  it  sends  up  all  over  the  forest 
floor  dainty  white  flower  spikes.  It,  too,  has  its 
mystery  and  its  romance,  for  who  can  doubt,  learn- 
ing that  it  is  classed  as  a  monotypic  genus  of  eastern 
North  America,  that  it  has  its  kinsfolk  across  the 
earth,  beckoning  us  to  recognize  the  relationship 
between  the  races  we  look  upon  as  our  antipodes? 

Huckleberries  soon  begin  to  blossom,  but  prettier 
than  the  flowers  are  the  little  bright  red  leaves  that 
add  so  much  to  the  color  of  the  forest  floor  in  early 
spring.  And  there  is  the  sparkleberry,  whose  pale- 
green,  neat-looking  bushes  are  all  a-dangle  with 
little  snow-white  bells  crowded  as  close  as  can  beon 
their  slender,  swinging  stems,  precursors  of  the  pale- 
green  berries  that  make  a  great  show  because  there 
are  so  many  of  them.  The  people  sometimes  make 
jelly  of  these  berries,  amazing  jelly  as  bitter  as  gall. 

Important  and  beautiful  as  are  all  these  flowers 
and  budding  leaves,  the  woods  do  not  quite  belong  to 


46         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

you  until  you  have  found  something  in  them  to  chew. 
Then  they  are  yours  in  an  intimate  and  pecuHar 
manner.  This  desire  to  taste  is  doubtless  a  survival 
of  the  child  in  us  that  we  never  quite  outgrow.  When 
we  go  into  the  woods  we  in  a  sense  revert  to  a  more 
primitive  state,  and  the  sight  of  sassafras  excites  the 
gustatory  nerve.  Sassafras  is  abundant.  It  blossoms 
like  a  burst  of  sunshine  along  the  edges  of  the  yet 
leafless  woods,  each  of  its  bare  branches  terminat- 
ing in  a  pretty  amber  ball  of  delicately  fragrant 
and  fringe-like  flowers.  There  is  nothing  prettier 
than  sassafras  with  the  sun  behind  its  blossoming 
twigs.  One  recalls  a  sassafras  grove  on  a  mountain 
slope  that  seemed  to  have  been  purposely  planted, 
the  trees  were  so  regular  in  size  and  position,  but  the 
poor  soul  who  owned  it  said  it  was  a  potato-field, 
and  that  the  harder  he  tried  to  root  out  the  sassa- 
fras the  better  it  grew.  We  who  do  not  depend  upon 
sassafras-land  for  our  potatoes  love  the  aromatic 
plant  whose  roots,  stems,  leaves,  and  flowers  yield 
a  pleasant  fragrance  as  well  as  a  pleasant  flavor  to 
those  who  have  not  outgrown  their  youthful  habit 
of  browsing  in  the  woods;  and  whose  history  has  also 
its  finer  flavor  of  romance,  since  the  sassafras  exists 
as  a  single  species  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  New 
World,  while  one  other  species  has  been  found  in 
China. 

With  the  sassafras  one  often  finds  its  near  relative 
the  spice-bush,  whose  botanical  name  is  Benzoin, 
because  of  its  fragrance,  and  whose  pungent,  cam- 
phor-flavored bark  is  also  pleasant  to  the  taste. 


HOW  SPRING  COMES  47 

There  are  seven  known  species  of  the  spice-bush, 
two  in  the  eastern  United  States,  the  others  in  Asia. 
Another  shrub  that  belongs  to  us  and  eastern  Asia 
and  that  tempts  one  to  nibble  is  what  the  people  here 
call  "sweet  bubbles."  It  appears  in  old-fashioned 
Northern  gardens  under  the  name  of  sweet-scented 
or  flowering  or  strawberry  shrub,  but  every  child 
who  has  warmed  the  stiff,  maroon-colored  flowers 
in  his  hand  —  and  what  child  has  not?  —  will  tell 
you  instantly  that  "sweet  bubbles"  is  the  prefer- 
able and  proper  name.  The  mountain  children  warm 
the  sweet  bubbles  in  their  hands,  but  they  do  not 
have  to  go  to  a  favored  corner  of  some  garden  to 
find  one.  They  can  pick  a  bushel  of  them  along  the 
roadside  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  house.  Like 
the  sassafras,  the  sweet  bubby  is  spicy  to  the  core; 
leaf,  root,  and  branch  possessing  an  agreeable  flavor. 

"Horse  sugar,"  the  only  North  American  member 
of  its  family,  which  otherwise  lives  in  South  America, 
Asia,  and  Australasia,  is  another  early  blossoming 
shrub  whose  flower  clusters  of  little  close-set  balls 
of  yellow  fringe  are  fragrant  and  whose  bark  is  aro- 
matic. Its  sweetish  leaves,  which  the  people  say 
horses  like  to  eat,  have  given  it  its  popular  name,  but 
the  botany,  scorning  frivolity,  christens  it  Symplocos 
tinctoria. 

Of  course  sap  that  has  exuded  from  the  pine  tree, 
when  it  hardens  to  just  the  right  consistency,  af- 
fords never-failing  solace  to  children  of  all  ages  who 
belong  to  the  woods.  Then  there  are  the  tips  of  the 
pine  twigs  that  leave  such  a  clean  and  pleasant 


48         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

flavor  in  the  mouth.  We  wanderers  of  the  earth 
enjoy  the  forest  with  all  our  senses,  and  with  its 
fragrance,  its  colors,  its  sounds,  and  its  sweet  juices 
we  seem  also  to  imbibe  something  of  its  freshness 
and  its  greatness. 


VI 

THE   CARNIVAL 

THE  early  flowers  are  only  the  prelude  in  the 
floral  drama  that  reaches  its  climax  when  the 
mountain  laurel,  the  flame-colored  azaleas,  and  the 
rhododendrons  come  upon  the  scene.  Their  appear- 
ance converts  the  earth  into  a  spectacle  difficult  to 
imagine,  and  although  the  outburst  is  so  prodigious, 
there  is  no  hurry,  it  is  sustained,  hanging  suspended 
as  it  were  in  almost  equal  intensity  for  a  month  or 
more.  It  takes  place  in  the  lower  mountains  in 
May,  in  the  higher  ones,  in  June  and  July. 

One  gets  the  first  hint  of  what  is  coming  when, 
driving  up  a  certain  mountain  near  Traumfest,  one 
sees  the  snowy  drifts  of  the  dogwood  through  a 
veil  of  bright  red-bud  in  the  misty  ravines;  that 
mountain  from  whose  side  one  looks  down  to  where 
beyond  the  hills  the  lowlands  spread,  reaching  like 
a  summer  sea  to  the  far  horizon,  —  the  lowlands  that 
wherever  visible  give  an  illusion  of  the  sea  that  is 
sometimes  wonderfully  real,  distance  lending  a 
misty  blue  to  the  level  landscape  out  of  which  roll 
lines  of  hills  like  breakers  white-crested  with  smoke 
or  mist  or  "deadenings."  A  log  cabin  shaded  by  a 
large  weeping  willow  rests  in  a  hollow  on  the  moun- 
tain. Fig  trees  and  rose-bushes  grow  about  it,  and 
a  spring  of  cold  water  gushes  out  of  the  ground.  From 


50         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  back  door  a  winding  path  leads  across  a  tiny 
"branch,"  across  a  hillside  and  across  a  hollow. 
Here  while  the  dogwood  is  yet  in  bloom,  one  gets  a 
glimpse  of  the  flames  that  are  presently  to  set  the 
mountains  ablaze.  This  first  sight  of  flame-colored 
azaleas  can  never  be  forgotten.  You  come  suddenly 
upon  great  clusters  of  flowers  that  blaze  forth  in  a 
splendor  that  quickens  the  pulse.  It  seems  incredible 
that  anything  could  come  to  such  perfection  of 
beauty  in  the  rude  environment  of  the  mountain- 
side where  so  many  plants  struggle  together  for  life. 
Even  the  celebrated  azaleas  of  Ghent,  the  pride 
of  the  hothouse,  pale  before  the  marvelous  beauty  of 
these  wild  growths. 

All  flowers  are  imprisoned  sunshine  in  a  figurative 
sense,  but  of  no  others  does  that  seem  so  literally  true 
as  of  these.  They  appeal  to  the  imagination  as  deli- 
cate flames  incarnate.  Each  bush  has  its  own  colors. 
Before  you  stands  one  whose  blossoms  are  the  color 
of  flames,  beyond  it  is  a  bush  clad  in  crimson  bloom, 
and  there  behind  the  bright-green  leaves  of  young 
trees  one  sees  a  blaze  of  scarlet.  Orange-yellow 
shading  to  pale  flame  glows  on  the  edge  of  the  hollow; 
a  regal  bush  blossoming  with  the  gold  of  ripe  lemons 
stands  a  little  apart;  as  you  look  up  the  near  hillside, 
your  eye  is  caught  by  wonderful  bronze  tints,  by 
shades  of  pink,  and  elusive  pale-rose  tints.  In  this 
arras  of  exquisitely  blended  colors,  soft  shadows 
lying  on  the  petals  yet  more  mingle  their  hues 
together. 

You  feel  as  if  something  important  had  happened 


THE   CARNIVAL  51 

as  you  turn  away  from  this  your  first  view  of  the 
flame-colored  azaleas  in  their  native  soil.  You  have 
a  sense  of  possession  and  gratitude  to  the  generosity 
that  thus  presents  to  you,  not  a  laboriously  culti- 
vated plant  in  a  pot,  or  even  a  great  bed  in  a  coun- 
try garden,  but  a  mountain-side  of  incomparable 
flowers  as  free  as  the  air. 

The  road  up  Rocky  Spur  at  the  time  of  the  carni- 
val of  flowers  is  a  succession  of  pictures  where 
blossoming  bushes  are  grouped  at  every  turn.  Over 
the  slopes  above  you  and  the  slopes  below,  between 
the  straight  tree-trunks  and  the  leafy  boughs, 
wherever  the  eyes  rest,  glow  these  flames  of  the 
azaleas.  When  you  reach  the  central  ridge,  the  high 
knife-edge  top  of  the  mountain  where  you  can  look 
off  both  sides,  you  see  not  only  the  landscape  of 
mountain  and  valley  immersed  in  the  soft  light,  those 
far  blue  spaces  and  that  near  mingling  of  green  foli- 
age, but  you  have  at  your  feet  rolling  down  the 
southern  slope  of  the  mountain  such  a  wave  of  bloom 
that  suddenly  seen  makes  you  catch  your  breath. 
This  is  the  end  of  the  road,  and  leaving  the  carriage 
you  go  down  the  mountain-side  into  the  sunny  cham- 
bers of  the  forest  luminous  with  blossoms  that  in- 
close and  embrace  you.  Above  your  head  hang  clouds 
of  gold,  at  your  knee  press  billows  of  flame,  all  about 
you  are  great  globe-like  clusters  of  these  incompar- 
able flowers. 

You  look  towards  the  mountains  that  lie  to 
the  south,  height  upon  height,  the  near  ones  green 
above  with  intense  blue  shadows  towards  their  bases. 


52         THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  more  distant  ones  a  sweet,  mystical  blue,  and 
you  know  that  on  all  those  slopes  far  and  near  are 
blazing  the  same  fires  that  illumine  the  earth 
about  you.  Being  thus  close  to  the  flowers,  you  can- 
not help  noticing  the  exquisite  texture  of  the  petals, 
their  great  size,  the  symmetry  of  each  flower  and 
of  the  large  clusters,  as  well  as  the  ornamental  shape 
of  the  bushes  with  the  young  leaves  piercing  through 
the  bloom  here  and  there  in  green  points.  It  is  the 
texture  of  the  flowers  and  their  width  —  some  of 
them  are  almost  round  —  that  gives  them  that  charm- 
ingly expansive,  one  might  say  luscious,  effect.  The 
petals  are  so  delicate  that  the  light  seems  almost  to 
shine  through  them.  These  wild  azaleas  of  the  South- 
ern mountains  lack  the  somewhat  dense  effect  of 
the  well-known  cultivated  plants,  and  when  trans- 
planted to  parks  and  gardens  they  lose  something  of 
their  sumptuousness,  their  wonderful  clearness  and 
richness  of  coloring,  and  to  an  extent  their  exquisite 
texture.  They  lose  their  aspect  of  dainty  wildness 
and  become  as  It  were  citified. 

To  see  the  perfect  fire  of  the  azaleas  you  must  come 
to  their  mountains.  They  may  be  found  from  south- 
ern New  York  to  Georgia,  but  only  in  the  high  parts 
of  the  Southern  mountains  do  they  attain  perfection. 
Although  the  azaleas  are  so  widespread  as  a  family, 
why  is  it  that  this  species  with  fire  In  its  veins  lives 
only  here  and  in  the  Far  East?  The  Himalaya 
Mountains,  like  the  mountains  of  Carolina,  have 
their  slopes  adorned  with  these  tremendously  glow- 
ing flowers  that  gave  to  the  gardens  of  Europe  their 


THE  CARNIVAL  53 

choicest  azaleas  long  before  these  of  the  New  World 
were  known. 

To  find  these  azaleas  one  must  ascend  the  moun- 
tains, for  they  do  not  grow  as  low  down  even  as 
Traumfest.  When  they  are  in  bloom,  we  visit  the 
Warriors  for  certain  hollows,  we  go  up  Tryon  Moun- 
tain because  of  certain  slopes,  we  frequent  the  wild 
heights  of  Hogback  and  Rocky  Spur.  We  warm  our 
senses  for  a  month  in  the  fire  of  the  flowers,  and  then 
if  we  like  we  can  go  higher  up  —  and  enjoy  it  all 
over  again.  In  the  higher  mountains  the  azaleas 
are  more  abundant  than  here,  though  they  are  no 
more  beautiful,  for  that  would  be  impossible.  When 
those  noble  heights  beyond  the  Blue  Ridge  wreathe 
themselves  in  flowers,  one  finds  whole  mountain- 
sides aglow,  for  where  the  trees  have  been  cut  off, 
fiery  azaleas  oftentimes  cover  the  wounded  earth. 
The  open  spaces  are  resplendent  beyond  words,  one 
sees  acres  of  flower-flames  ablaze  on  the  slopes.  These 
close-crowding  bushes  in  the  cleared  places  are  low, 
laying  a  stunning  carpet  of  color  over  the  mountain- 
side, but  in  the  woods  they  grow  tall,  and  you  see  them 
on  all  sides  glowing  in  the  shadows  and  burning  in  the 
sunlight.  The  outbreak  of  color  is  almost  overwhelm- 
ing, and  one  is  grateful  for  those  intervening  spaces 
where  are  no  flowers.  From  a  world  of  exciting  colors 
one  passes  into  the  cool  and  peaceful  green  of  the 
forest,  presently  to  turn  a  curve  in  the  road  and  find 
the  slopes  again  on  all  sides  in  furious  bloom. 

Thus  for  a  season  the  earth  is  transfigured,  the 
mountains  on  all  sides  are  burning  with  flames  that 


54         THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

do  not  destroy.  The  spectacle  is  on  a  grand  scale ; 
one  can  wander  over  thousands  of  square  miles  en- 
compassed by  flowers ;  —  beyond  the  limits  of  North 
Carolina  these  unconsuming  flames  have  spread  over 
hundreds  of  miles  of  the  ridges  and  spurs  of  the 
Southern  Appalachians,  so  that  one  seems  to  get 
lost  even  in  thinking  of  it.  The  people  call  these 
azaleas  "yellow  honeysuckles,  "and  get  tired  of  them. 
The  azaleas  flaming  throughout  the  forest  are  like 
great  music,  great  poetry,  great  pictures;  they  strike 
too  high  a  note  for  the  lives  of  the  people.  Such 
fervor  wearies  their  unaccustomed  nerves,  and  they 
turn  for  consolation  to  a  calmer  expression  of  the 
great  renewal. 

For  the  flame-colored  azaleas,  marvelous  as  they 
are,  form  but  a  part  of  the  flood  of  bloom  that  rolls 
over  the  mountains.  About  the  time  they  appear, 
the  fair  and  restful  Kalmia  latifolia,  or  mountain 
laurel,  begins  to  open.  The  mountains  here  are  green 
with  kalmia  —  or  laurel,  as  one  prefers  to  call  it  — 
as  the  hills  of  the  North  are  green  with  grass.  When 
the  forest  is  burned  over,  the  mountain  laurel  rushes 
in  and  competes  with  young  pine  trees  for  the  soil. 
It  grows  in  impenetrable  jungles  in  the  ravines  and 
along  the  water-courses.  Where  grown  in  the  open 
and  safe  from  fire,  it  attains  great  size,  there  being 
laurel  trees  about  Highlands  and  elsewhere  as  large 
as  ordinary  apple  trees.  Generally,  however,  it 
appears  as  bushes  from  three  to  fifteen  feet  high  that, 
annually  covering  themselves  with  bloom,  light  up 
the  mountains  from  end  to  end.    Standing  waist- 


THE  CARNIVAL  55 

high  on  a  level  of  low-growing  laurel,  the  bushes  con- 
cealed by  the  heavy  billowing  masses  of  bloom,  you 
seem  to  be  afloat  on  a  sea  of  flowers. 

The  laurel  freely  covers  the  lower  as  well  as  the 
higher  mountains.  It  wrapsTraumfestas  in  a  man- 
tle. Who  does  not  know  the  "laurel  path  "  that  winds 
through  an  otherwise  impenetrable  thicket?  Over 
this  path  in  the  blossoming  season  you  wade,  as  it 
were,  through  a  flowery  labyrinth  that  opens  to  let 
you  pass  and  closes  behind  you  as  you  follow  the 
winding  way.  Masses  of  bloom  lightly  touch  your 
cheek,  or  graze  your  shoulder,  tall  bushes  loaded  with 
blossoms  close  over  your  head  —  you  pass  under  an 
arch  composed  of  flowers.  You  look  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  bushes  that  surround  you,  and  the  slope 
below  you  is  covered  with  a  carpet  of  rosy- white 
bloom.  In  Traumfest  some  of  us  go  out  to  see  the 
laurel  as  the  people  of  Japan  go  out  to  see  the  cherry 
blossoms.  You  climb  Melrose  to  be  buried  in  laurel 
bloom.  You  ascend  heights  that  you  may  look  down 
upon  the  earth  hidden  under  flowers.  Again  you 
drive  along  the  upper  edge  of  a  ravine  that  runs  for 
miles  bank  full  of  laurel  blossoms. 

The  air  is  pervaded  by  the  bitter-sweet  smell  of 
the  flowers.  The  ground  is  white  where  the  cups 
have  begun  to  fall  —  or  perhaps  it  is  red,  for  there 
are  bushes  that  bloom  year  after  year  as  red  as  a 
rose,  and  others  that  clothe  themselves  in  a  gar- 
ment of  delicate  pink.  There  are  also  those  whose 
bloom  is  as  white  as  snow,  the  crisp  and  upright 
cups  scarcely  pricked  with  the  red  dot  that  marks 


56         THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  anther  pockets  so  conspicuous  in  some  of  the 
laurel. 

Nothing  is  more  charming  than  a  laurel  cup  with 
the  anthers  on  its  recurved  filaments  still  hidden 
in  the  little  pink  pits  that  indent  the  inside  of  the 
corolla  in  a  circle.  These  curved  and  captured  sta- 
mens, pretty  traps  to  force  invading  insects  to  bear 
away  pollen  on  their  wings,  at  the  slightest  touch 
spring  back  and  curl  up  at  the  centre  of  the  flower 
dusting  the  intruder,  and  you,  passing  among  the 
laurel,  are  sure  to  be  dusted  with  little  pellets  of 
pollen  bombarding  you  on  all  sides.  And  the  cups 
themselves!  Scalloped  on  the  edges,  shaped  and 
decorated  like  tiny  afternoon- tea  cups,  who  does  not 
know  and  love  them!  There  is  something  familiar 
and  homelike  about  laurel,  and  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand why  the  people  prefer  it  to  the  azaleas.  Like 
the  New  Englander  they  call  it  "calico-bush,"  a 
comfortable  name  suggesting  Sunday  starch  and 
fresh  young  girls.  And  here,  as  in  New  England, 
the  laurel  is  also  known  as  "ivy,"  the  name  laurel 
being  here  bestowed  upon  the  lordly  rhododendron. 

The  mountain-laurel  and  the  flame-colored  aza- 
leas, though  both  so  abundant,  do  not  interfere  with 
each  other.  There  is  room  on  the  vast  surface  of 
the  mountains  for  both.  And  while  a  zone  of  flower- 
ing azaleas  belts  the  mountains,  just  below  it  or  in- 
terrupting it  or  claiming  intruding  ravines  is  the 
tremendous  calm  sea  of  the  blossoming  laurel. 

As  though  the  marvelous  outbreak  of  the  azaleas 
and  laurel  were  not  enough  to  express  the  joy  of  life 


A   LAUREL    PATH 


THE   CARNIVAL  57 

animating  the  earth,  the  rhododendrons  open  their 
regal  buds.  No  one  would  think  of  calling  the  rho- 
dodendron a  "calico-bush"!  It  belongs  by  every 
line  of  its  stately  foliage  and  more  stately  blossoms 
to  the  aristocracy  of  plant  life.  Its  thick,  glossy, 
evergreen  leaves,  much  larger  than  those  of  the  laurel 
and  darker  in  color,  its  tall  growth  and  crooked  stems 
make  it  a  noticeable  and  very  decorative  presence 
even  when  not  in  bloom.  At  the  elevation  of  Traum- 
fest  the  greater  rhododendrons  do  not  grow,  only 
those  smaller,  early  blossoming  ones  whose  more  deli- 
cate forms  and  exquisite  pale-pink  or  white  blos- 
soms grace  many  a  ravine  and  roadside  bank.  But 
on  the  higher  mountains  the  slopes  and  ravines  are 
often  impassable  because  of  the  dense  growths  of 
rhododendrons,  the  king  of  which  is  the  Rhodo- 
dendron maximum,  that  sometimes  becomes  a  tree 
forty  feet  high,  though  more  often  it  Is  a  large 
shrub. 

Smaller  than  this,  seldom  reaching  a  height  of 
twenty  feet,  and  very  abundant  on  many  of  the 
mountains,  is  the  Rhododendron  CataivHense,  or 
mountain  rose-bay,  blooming  earlier  than  the  other, 
its  large  clusters  of  lilac  or  purple  or  sometimes  rose- 
red  flowers  making  one  of  the  most  showy  spectacles 
of  the  carnival  season,  particularly  as  It  chooses  open 
places  and  the  summits  of  the  mountains  to  display 
its  colors.  How  many  mountain  scenes  one  recalls 
made  glorious  by  this  splendid  shrub,  and  perhaps 
nowhere  does  it  give  more  pleasure  to  the  eye  than 
where  it  stands  In  groups  on  the  long  and  beautiful 


58         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

slopes  of  the  Grandfather  Mountain,  those  southern 
slopes  sweeping  down  and  down  into  the  foothills 
of  the  John's  River  Valley.  One  of  the  finest  roads 
in  the  mountains  crosses  this  southern  front  of  the 
Grandfather,  winding  through  the  forest  and  over 
the  open  places,  keeping  for  many  miles  an  elevation 
of  about  four  thousand  feet.  It  is  in  every  sense  a 
high  place.  The  air  is  clean  and  cool  and  fragrant; 
in  the  distant  spaces  lie  fair  valleys  and  noble  moun- 
tains, while  close  about  you  the  mountain  rose-bay 
enchantingly  colors  the  earth.  The  effect  of  these 
masses  of  bloom  on  the  grassy  slopes  against  the 
blue  sky  is  lovely. 

The  color  of  these  flowers  varies  a  good  deal,  all 
the  way  from  rich  purple-red  to  a  clear,  sweet  rose- 
color.  Some  people  condemn  the  flowers  as  "ma- 
genta," seeing  only  that  among  all  the  colors  they 
assume.  But  there  are  occasions  when  even  this 
despised  color  can  ravish  the  senses.  Up  near  the 
top  of  the  Grandfather  Mountain,  for  instance,  one 
should  see  the  purple  rose-bay  against  the  blue- 
gray  rocks  in  the  quivering  blue  atmosphere  of  a 
summer  day  to  find  out  how  glorious  a  thing  a  ma- 
genta flower  in  its  right  setting  can  be. 

As  the  mountain  rose-bay  passes,  the  great  wax- 
like flowers  of  the  Rhododendron  maximum  come 
forth  out  of  the  heavy  bud  clusters.  The  Rhodo- 
dendron maximum  generally  grows  in  ravines  or 
along  damp  slopes,  where  it  makes  jungles  of  trop- 
ical luxuriance.  Its  large  flowers,  which  are  usually 
white  or  a  delicate  peachy  pink,  grow  in  clusters 


THE   CARNIVAL  59 

like  the  flowers  of  the  other  rhododendrons,  and 
though  the  Rhododendron  maximum  does  not  bloom 
so  profusely  as  the  laurel,  the  sight  of  the  high  wall 
of  a  ravine  tapestried  with  its  large  dark-green  leaves, 
in  which  the  great  flower  clusters  gleam  out,  is 
something  to  remember.  The  regal  Rhododendron 
maximum  is  not  so  exciting  as  the  flaming  azalea, 
not  so  home-like  as  the  laurel,  nor  so  theatrical  as 
the  mountain  rose-bay,  but  it  possesses  a  degree  of 
dignity  and  elegance  belonging  to  it  alone  and  that 
distinguishes  it  among  all  the  forest  growths. 

There  are  several  species  of  the  rhododendron 
found  in  difTerent  parts  of  the  mountains,  among 
them  the  charming  little  Rhododendron  Vaseyii 
that,  unlike  the  other  rhododendrons,  sheds  its 
leaves  in  the  fall.  It  was  said  at  onetime  to  be  extinct, 
but  this  is  not  true,  as  any  one  knows  who,  early  in 
the  season,  has  seen  the  cliffs  on  the  north  side  of 
the  Grandfather  Mountain  brightly  colored  with  its 
rosy  bloom. 

The  azaleas,  laurels,  and  rhododendrons,  although 
so  abundant  in  the  Southern  mountains,  are  by  no 
means  confined  to  them,  some  species  being  found 
throughout  the  whole  Appalachian  system  from 
Canada  to  Georgia.  One  recalls  certain  New  Eng- 
land pastures  that  are  mantled  in  laurel,  while  the 
Rhododendron  maximum  occurs  locally  as  far  north 
as  New  Hampshire.  The  red-blooming  mountain 
rose-bay  begins  its  course  in  Virginia,  making  a  won- 
derful show  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains,  as  all 
will  recall  with  pleasure  who  have  passed  through 


60         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  Cumberland  Gap  in  its  blooming  season.  And 
the  flame-colored  azaleas,  as  has  been  said,  light 
their  fires  as  far  north  as  Southern  New  York, 
though  they  do  not  burn  with  the  brilliancy  and 
variety  of  color  anywhere  else  as  here  where  they 
so  wonderfully  set  the  slopes  of  the  mountains 
ablaze. 

To  the  mountaineer  all  things  are  admissible  that 
serve  his  ends,  and  one  is  horrified  upon  first  coming 
to  find  him  burning  rhododendron  and  laurel  wood 
because,  he  says,  they  make  a  hot  fire  good  for 
cooking.  Think  of  cutting  down  for  such  a  purpose 
a  rhododendron  or  a  laurel  tree  with  a  trunk  thick 
enough  to  be  split  into  four  sticks  of  wood !  Familiar- 
ity with  the  country,  however,  modifies  this  horror. 
When  there  is  rhododendron  enough  to  get  lost  in, 
one  can  afford  to  burn  a  little  now  and  then. 

With  the  passing  of  the  azaleas,  the  laurel,  and  the 
rhododendrons,  the  fervor  of  the  blooming  season 
here  subsides,  and  it  is  then  that  one  being  in  Traum- 
fest  often  goes  down  to  a  certain  stream  over  which 
a  bridge  unites  two  cornfields.  At  either  end  of  this 
bridge  on  the  edge  of  the  water  grow  large  azalea 
bushes  different  from  the  others.  These  now  begin  to 
put  forth,  not  pink  nor  flame-colored  azaleas,  but 
snowy  white  blossoms  with  a  strong  and  spicy  frag- 
rance that  carries  one  back  to  certain  New  England 
swamps  where  one  learned  to  love  and  watch  for 
these  fragrant  things.  These  are  the  last  of  the 
azaleas  down  below  and  the  only  white  ones.  But 
there  is  a  species  of  white  azalea  up  on  Toxaway 


THE  CARNIVAL  6i 

Mountain  and  elsewhere,  closely  resembling  this 
of  the  brookside,  though  it  grows  on  the  dry  slopes, 
yielding  the  same  delicious  fragrance.  It  may  be 
said  in  passing  that  sweet-fern,  dear  to  the  heart  of 
every  one  familiar  with  New  England  pastures,  also 
grows  on  Toxaway,  Pisgah,  and  other  of  the  high 
mountains.  What  a  turn  it  gives  one  to  see  it  here 
unexpectedly  and  to  smell  its  incomparable  odor,  an 
odor  that  more  than  any  other  revives  slumbering 
memories. 

But  these  fragrant  white  azaleas  are  like  the  epi- 
logue at  the  end  of  the  play.  When  the  gleaming 
petals  of  the  Rhododendron  maximum  fall  away,  the 
curtain  has  dropped  on  the  Carnival  of  the  Flowers, 
and  spring  moves  on  into  summer  and  fruitage. 


VII 

SUMMER   IN   THE   MOUNTAINS 

AFTER  the  reckless  profusion  of  spring,  what  is 
left  for  summer  in  the  matter  of  flowers? 
There  is  indeed  nothing  to  match  the  early  display, 
yet  the  summer  is  not  flowerless,  and  it  has  a  beauty 
of  its  own  in  the  fruitage  that  overwhelms  one  for  a 
time. 

One  notices  how  vines  are  everywhere  twining 
and  climbing,  —  festooning  the  trees,  overlaying 
the  bushes,  tying  the  tall  weeds  together,  clematis 
here,  woodbine  there,  smilax,  trumpet-vine,  so  many 
vetches,  so  many  pretty  vines  whose  names  one  does 
not  know,  —  how  they  cling  and  climb  and  riot  in 
luxuriant  life!  Everywhere  along  the  ravines  the 
forest  trees  are  hung  with  the  strong  cables  of  the 
grapevine,  whose  foliage  mingles  inextricably  with 
that  of  the  tree  it  mantles,  and  whose  delicious 
fragrance  loads  the  air  about  the  time  the  little 
white  urns  of  the  persimmon  tree  fall  to  the  ground 
brimmed  with  delicate  perfume. 

We  find  six  kinds  of  morning-glories  choking  up 
our  vegetable  garden  in  August.  We  have  given  up 
all  hope  of  vegetables,  but  we  go  out  in  the  morning 
to  rejoice  in  the  glory  of  the  usurper.  Those  vines 
with  star-shaped  leaves  that  run  over  garden  and 
fields,  fairly  carpeting  the  earth  in  places,  are  pas- 


SUMMER   IN  THE  MOUNTAINS        63 

sion-flower  vines,  as  you  would  know  from  the  won- 
derful flowers  that  cover  them.  Think  of  red  earth 
numbering  among  its  weeds  the  great  blue  disks  of 
the  passion-flower.  Your  garden  is  a  riot  of  bloom- 
ing weeds,  so  that  you  cannot  see  anything  else. 
Everything  except  the  vegetables  has  grown  as 
though  possessed. 

Not  that  all  this  marvelous  growth  even  of  weeds 
is  without  its  difficulties.  There  are  caterpillars. 
Besides  these,  many  other  hungry  insect  guests  of 
the  summer  appear  as  if  on  purpose  to  cut  short  the 
mad  career  of  the  plants  —  sometimes  with  ludicrous 
abruptness.  But  these  incursions  seem  generally  to 
take  place  after  the  plant  has  accomplished  the 
maturing  of  seeds  enough  to  weed  down  the  earth 
another  year. 

Now  from  the  depths  of  the  woods  comes  the  voice 
of  the  "moaning dove,"  as  the  negroes  call  it,  whose 
frequently  uttered  coo — 0000 — 00  in  the  hot,  still, 
summer  days  fills  the  heart  with  an  indescribable 
sadness  and  longing,  and  the  wood  thrush  yet  heralds 
and  closes  the  day  with  its  ringing  notes.  At  the 
faintest  hint  of  dawn  one  hears  a  clear,  soft  refrain. 
Like  the  morning  prayer  of  the  Arab  that  passes 
from  tower  to  tower,  the  song  of  the  thrush  is  caught 
up  by  bird  after  bird  until  the  air  throbs  with  song. 
This  lasts  until  the  sun  is  shining,  when  the  ecstatic 
hymn  to  the  dawn  ceases. 

Yet  silence  does  not  reign  when  the  birds  stop,  for 
the  insect  chorus,  that  began  in  the  spring  with  weak 
chirps  and  trills,  has  swelled  to  a  deafening  shout 


64         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

that  ascends  as  the  sun  goes  down,  stops  suddenly 
before  dawn,  only  to  be  renewed,  though  less  vocif- 
erously, by  other  insects  during  the  day.  Cicadas 
spring  their  rattles  and  whirr  past  in  startling  prox- 
imity to  your  face,  and  when  the  "seventeen-year 
locusts"  swarm  out  on  Tryon  Mountain,  you  must 
needs  shout  into  the  ear  of  your  companion  as  you 
drive  through  the  forest  vibrating  with  their  shrill 
voices.  It  is  almost  as  noisy  as  a  storm  at  sea,  and  it 
is  hard  to  understand  how  these  hordes  happen  to 
have  their  seventeen-yearly  anniversary  so  often. 

But  excepting  for  the  locusts  on  Tryon  Mountain, 
the  turmoil  of  the  day  is  nothing  to  that  of  the  night. 
One  wonders  who  they  all  are,  those  strident- voiced 
myriads  hidden  under  the  leaves.  Above  everything 
else  rise  the  insistent  cries  of  the  katydids,  while  out 
of  the  woods  come  all  kinds  of  purrings,  and  squeak- 
ings,  and  trillings.  Those  little  meteors  that  trail 
through  the  bushes  are  fireflys,  as  are  also  the  rap- 
idly moving  constellations  of  stars  that  gem  the 
treetops. 

Always  in  summer  a  voice  rings  out  as  the  sun 
goes  down,  and  continues  chanting  Its  wild  refrain 
all  night  and  every  night,  until  stilled  by  the  cold  of 
winter.  Whip-poor-will  !  whip-poor-will  I  —  some- 
times you  will  hear  half  a  dozen  of  these  tireless 
vocalists  performing  at  once. 

Another  voice  of  the  night  is  the  soft,  tremulous 
call  that  comes  down  the  aisles  of  the  forest  when 
the  sun  sets  and  the  little  downy  owls  come  forth. 
The  owl,  it  is  said,  puts  the  night  to  evil  uses,  catch- 


SUMMER   IN  THE   MOUNTAINS        65 

ing  and  eating  the  birds  and  despoiling  their  nests  of 
eggs  and  young;  but  whoever  has  heard  the  many 
sweet  cadences,  the  crooning,  caressing  tones  of  these 
fluffy,  nocturnal  revelers,  will  be  convinced  that 
the  chief  occupation  of  the  owl  at  night  is  the  pursuit 
of  happiness.  Sometimes  far  away,  deep-toned,  and 
mysterious  comes  the  hoo — 000 — 000,  hoo — 00  of  the 
great  horned  owl,  and  you,  listening,  can  easily  be- 
lieve that  he  at  least  is  up  to  mischief.  You  do  not 
often  see  the  owls,  but  sometimes  walking  in  the 
woods  at  dusk  a  shape  will  float  past  noiseless  as  a 
disembodied  spirit. 

In  the  higher  mountains  there  are  no  mosquitoes, 
and  there  used  to  be  none  at  Traumfest  in  those 
good  old  days  before  the  stranger  had  begun  to  "im- 
prove "  the  place.  The  summers  of  Traumfest  are 
sweet  beyond  words  to  express  and  the  thermometer 
goes  no  higher  here  than  in  the  North,  —  not  so  high 
very  often,  —  and  the  nights  are  cool ;  but  the  hot 
season  lasts  longer,  so  that  those  accustomed  to  five 
or  six  weeks  of  midsummer  heat  sometimes  grumble 
when  they  get  four  months  of  it.  But  no  one  who 
has  not  spent  a  summer  here  can  hope  to  know  what 
these  woods  are  capable  of  in  the  way  of  sweet  smells. 

All  the  mountaineer  does  these  days  is  to  "work 
the  corn"  with  a  cultivator,  if  he  happens  to  have 
one  with  the  necessary  adjunct  of  a  mule;  or  other- 
wise with  a  slow  hoe.  Sometimes  he  does  not  work 
it,  and  complains  of  the  result.  The  corn  crop  looks 
like  a  joke  to  the  newcomer  accustomed  to  corn  in 
other  regions.   "What  are  you  doing? "  was  asked  of 


66         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

a  boy  busy  in  a  field  of  young  corn  so  sparse  as  to 
excite  mirth.  The  boy  looked  up,  and  cheerily  re- 
plied, "Oh,  I  am  thinning  the  corn,"  And  so  he  was ! 
When  the  corn  has  been  properly  thinned,  you  will 
find  but  one  stalk  to  a  hill  and  the  hills  far  apart, 
excepting  in  the  river  bottoms  where  the  showing  is 
better.  Man  ploughs  the  corn,  but  woman  often 
hoes  it,  she  and  the  children.  The  children  begin  to 
hoe  at  the  age  of  eight,  and  you  will  often  see  them 
busy  in  the  fields,  both  boys  and  girls  —  but  it  is  not 
necessary  to  pity  them,  for  they  like  it. 

The  cornfield  is  ever  present  in  the  landscape,  not 
only  covering  the  valley  bottoms,  but  lying  precari- 
ously on  the  steepest  slopes  surrounded  by  the  forest. 
Beans  are  often  planted  with  the  corn,  where  they 
climb  the  convenient  stalks,  but  it  is  the  corn  one 
sees,  and  the  corn  which  gives  that  odd  domestic 
touch  to  the  wild  scenery  of  the  Southern  mountains. 
For  corn  is  not  only  the  principal  food  of  the  moun- 
taineer, but  supplies  as  well  that  important  bever- 
age, variously  known  as  "corn-juice,"  "moonshine," 
"mountain-dew,"  "blockade,"  "  brush  whiskey,"  and 
in  the  outer  world , ' '  corn-whiskey, ' '  which  is  extracted 
from  the  grain  and  surreptitiously  distributed. 

Fortunately  this  important  crop  is  able  to  defy 
the  rigors  of  the  summer  and  conquer,  with  man's 
help,  the  overwhelming  army  of  weeds  —  or  flowers ; 
for  many  of  these  wild  growths  could  be  called 
"weeds"  only  by  a  soulless  farmer  regardless  of 
everything  but  crops. 

As  summer  advances,  the  compositae  begin  to 


SUMMER   IN   THE   MOUNTAINS        67 

carpet  the  fields  with  cloth-of-gold,  and  tapestry 
the  hedges  with  gay  colors,  but  the  summer  flowers 
are  as  nothing  compared  to  the  procession  of  fruits 
that,  beginning  in  the  spring  with  strawberries,  lasts 
throughout  the  hot  season.  Strawberries  at  Traum- 
fest  are  ripe  in  May,  and  so  are  cherries,  —  what 
there  are,  for  the  cherry  does  not  flourish  here;  and 
no  sooner  does  the  fruit  turn  red  on  the  few  trees 
lovingly  watched  by  their  owners  than  there  appear 
upon  the  scene  a  large  and  happy  flock  of  cedar  wax- 
wings,  for  no  slight  reason  named  "cherry-birds." 

When  the  procession  of  fruits  is  fairly  started,  you 
will  have  hard  work  to  keep  up  with  it  for  a  few 
weeks.  About  Traumfest  plums,  peaches,  peaches, 
peaches,  berries,  the  most  delicious  of  grapes,  — 
Traumfest  is  noted  for  its  grapes,  —  apples,  —  such 
as  they  are,  —  figs  —  and  melons !  Wagonloads  of 
watermelons  stand  about  waiting,  not  in  vain,  for 
customers.  You  know  the  approach  of  the  melon 
season  from  the  vanguard  of  empty  rinds  lying  along 
the  roadside.  There  is  no  trouble  getting  at  a  melon. 
All  you  need  do  is  to  "bust  it  open,"  root  into  the 
crisp,  pink,  and  juicy  interior  with  your  hands,  and 
go  ahead.  This  the  negro  children  do,  lacking  a 
knife,  and  you  will  see  them,  tears  of  pure  delight,  as 
it  were,  streaming  from  the  corners  of  their  happy 
mouths.  The  Southern  watermelon!  What  other 
fruit  ever  bestowed  such  joy  on  humankind.  To  see 
a  Carolina  negro  camped  down  before  a  big  water- 
melon is  to  see  what  the  philosophers  try  to  make  us 
believe  does  not  exist,  —  a  perfectly  happy  mortal. 


68         THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

How  we  do  revel  in  ripe  fruit !  And  then  —  all  of  a 
sudden  —  the  procession  has  passed.  The  seemingly 
endless  abundance  stops  short.  You  realize  with  a 
sort  of  anger  that  it  has  gone.  Why  did  you  not  eat 
more?  Why  did  you  not  pickle,  preserve,  can  all 
those  vanished  blessings  tenfold  more  than  you  did? 
It  seemed  as  though  such  abundance  could  never 
end  —  and  now  — ! 

But  it  is  not  quite  ended.  If  you  look  over  those 
fields  where,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  farmer,  the 
great  blue  passion-flowers  bloomed  all  summer,  you 
will  see  leathery-skinned  fruits  as  large  as  a  goose 
egg  lying  about  by  the  basketful.  These  are  may- 
pops.  If  you  break  open  a  thoroughly  ripe  one,  you 
will  be  assailed  by  an  aroma  that  makes  you  think  of 
tropical  fruits,  of  perfumed  bowers,  of  Arabian 
Nights  banquets,  of  fairy  gardens,  and  strange 
tropical  flowers.  Inside,  the  maypop  resembles  a 
pomegranate,  but  the  patrician  pomegranate  has  no 
such  heavenly  flavor  as  has  this  wild  and  worthless 
maypop.  What  our  fruit-makers  are  thinking  of 
not  to  cultivate  the  maypop,  one  cannot  imagine. 
It  offers  possibilities  that  ought  to  tempt  them  be- 
yond the  power  of  resistance.  In  some  parts  of  the 
mountains  the  people  call  the  maypops  "apricots" 
and  eat  them,  though  they  belong  principally  to  the 
age  of  childhood.  These  strange,  exquisite,  good-for- 
nothing  fruits  are  the  product  of  the  passion-flower 
vine. 

Later  than  the  cultivated  grapes,  about  the  time 
of  the  maypops,  come  the  wild  grapes,  among  them 


SUMMER   IN  THE   MOUNTAINS        69 

the  large  sweet  muscadines  that  the  country  children 
bring  in  by  the  bushel.  These  come  on  the  edge  of 
autumn,  but  before  the  summer  Is  over  there  is  yet  a 
unique  and  gorgeous  display  In  the  plant  world  that 
cannot  be  ignored.  It  is  not  flowers  this  time,  though 
as  the  summer  nears  its  end,  the  ground  blossoms 
out  in  the  most  extraordinary  manner.  What  are 
those  large  gold  plates  lying  in  the  woods?  Those 
exquisitely  yellow,  or  orange,  or  pink  or  purple  disks, 
those  masses  of  coral,  red,  yellow,  or  ivory-white? 
Those  pearly  or  snowy  caps?  Those  enormous  frills 
and  those  smoky  little  buttons?  Ah,  yes,  they  are 
the  mushrooms!  How  many  shapes  and  sizes  and 
colors  spring  up  in  a  night!  Sometimes  they  are 
beautiful  and  sometimes  they  are  not.  But  they  are 
always  amusing,  as  though  trying  to  tell  us  to  take 
all  this  fuss  and  fury  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  calmly, 
or  even  somewhat  as  a  jest.  "After  all,  what  mat- 
ters it?"  they  seem  to  say;  "they  are  gone  and  here 
are  we,  just  as  gay  and  twice  as  funny";  and  they 
roll  up  or  straighten  out  into  all  sorts  of  shapes.  They 
break  the  spell  of  the  flowers  and  fruits,  as  it  were, 
and  put  one  in  mood  for  the  next  great  event,  the 
vivid  and  most  tender  splendor  of  the  autumn. 


VIII 

AUTUMN 

SLOWLY  Autumn  kindles  her  torch.  Here  and 
there  a  yellow  leaf  shows  among  the  green.  Then 
comes  a  premonitory  softening  of  the  w^hole  land- 
scape. Then  colors,  almost  as  dainty  as  those  of 
spring,  creep  over  the  earth,  so  slowly  that  time  and 
again  you  decide  there  is  to  be  no  great  display  this 
year,  when,  some  warm  November  day,  you  look  out 
to  find  the  world  transfigured. 

The  difference  between  the  autumn  coloring  of  the 
North  and  of  the  South  is  that  there  it  is  brilliant, 
while  here  it  is  tender.  There  the  hardwood  trees 
blaze,  here  they  glow.  The  reds  that  here  so  wonder- 
fully emblazon  the  book  of  nature  have  a  peculiar 
delicacy  and  softness  of  tone  that  give  a  character  of 
its  own  to  the  landscape.  As  the  oak  leaves  deepen 
to  wine-red,  the  dogwoods  turn  exquisite  shades  of 
old-rose  and  pink,  and  the  sourwood  adds  its  ruby 
splendor.  The  tall  pyramidal  forms  of  the  sweet- 
gum,  mantled  in  dark  purple  or  deep  reds  touched 
with  orange,  add  depth  to  the  color-tone  of  the 
forest,  or  Its  leaves  turn  yellow,  —  and  sometimes  all 
these  colors  mingle  together  on  the  same  tree.  A 
sweet-gum  In  autumn  dress  with  the  sun  through  it 
fairly  takes  one's  breath.  Sassafras  points  the 
woods  with  thrilling  spots  of  scarlet,  orange,  and 


AUTUMN  71 

red.  Sumac  burns  in  the  hedges,  while  huckleberry 
and  other  bushes  crimson  the  ground. 

Mingling  with  the  reds,  or  apart  by  themselves, 
are  the  clean  yellows  characteristic  of  this  region. 
Tall  tulip-trees  stand  in  the  hollows  and  along  the  ra- 
vines with  crowns  of  gold.  Hickories  and  beeches  add 
their  yellows  and  browns,  and  the  chestnut  oak,  when 
other  oaks  are  red,  keeps  up  the  pretense  and  turns 
golden-brown,  the  color  of  fading  chestnut  leaves. 

The  whole  world  is  at  times  immersed  in  a  light 
that  strangely  enhances  its  beauty.  Is  it  smoke  that 
makes  those  intensely  blue  spaces  under  the  trees? 
The  forests  have  not  yet  begun  to  burn,  only  the 
people  are  burning  brush  here  and  there.  The  color 
seems  to  be  in  the  air  itself.  The  very  tree-trunks 
often  look  blue,  the  delicate,  mystical  blue  of  the 
Blue  Ridge  Mountains. 

One  wakens  day  after  day  to  transports  of  color. 
Out  of  each  window  a  new  scene  constantly  unfolds. 
The  sun  shines  in  to  you  through  a  tent  of  red  and 
yellow  leaves  that  incloses  the  house,  and  the  moun- 
tains seen  through  them  take  on  intenser  tones  of 
rose-color  and  blue,  of  purple  and  peacock  green. 
The  mountain  slopes  far  and  near  at  this  time  seem 
hung  with  an  arras  from  some  enchanted  loom.  The 
splendid  colors  of  the  hardwood  trees  are  interwoven 
with  the  sunny  plumes  of  the  pines,  while  here  and 
there  the  twisted  crown  of  an  ancient  pine  tree  is 
drawn  in  strong  lines  against  the  glowing  back- 
ground, while  golden  sunlight  sifts  and  quivers 
through  it  all. 


72         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

Slowly  the  autumn  draws  on,  and  slowly  it  passes, 
lingering  as  lingered  the  coming  of  spring,  sometimes 
sustaining  its  flames  well  into  December.  Indeed, 
there  are  splashes  of  crimson  remaining  all  winter, 
for  which  one  has  to  thank  the  horse-brier,  the  most 
exasperating  plant  that  grows,  but  to  see  it  in  mid- 
winter festooning  the  young  trees  and  the  bushes 
with  its  trailing  wreaths  of  fire  is  to  forgive  it  every- 
thing. If  you  go  down  to  the  brookside  in  Novem- 
ber, supposing  the  flowers  are  gone  and  the  winter  at 
hand,  you  will  meet  with  a  pleasant  surprise.  Those 
deep  blue  spindles  standing  upright  among  the  fallen 
leaves  are  closed  gentians,  more  graceful  and  of  a 
deeper,  purer  blue  than  the  closed  gentians  of  the 
North. 

When  the  leaves  are  taking  on  their  autumn 
colors,  the  cornfields  turn  to  gold,  and  men,  women, 
and  children  go  out  to  "pull  fodder,"  an  occupation 
that  in  the  meadowless  regions,  and  to  an  extent  all 
through  the  mountains,  takes  the  place  of  haying, 
and,  consistently,  is  less  arduous.  The  stripped-ofT 
leaves  and  the  cut-off  tassels  are  hung  up  to  dry  on 
the  yet  standing  stalk  in  the  crotch  made  by  the  ear 
of  corn,  or  sometimes  in  the  crotch  of  a  convenient 
tree.  And  that  is  all  there  is  to  it. 

When  the  fodder-pullers  have  finished  their  work 
and  the  dried  fodder  has  been  "toted"  home,  the 
cornfield  for  a  time  presents  the  most  extraordinary 
appearance  in  its  history.  It  suggests  a  company  of 
pygmies,  each  standing  erect  with  his  pack  over  his 
shoulder,  for  the  heavy  ears  of  corn  turn  down  and 


AUTUMN  73 

are  all  that  is  left  on  the  stripped  and  beheaded 
stalks.  Throughout  the  mountains  these  absurd 
cornfields  are  a  feature  of  the  autumn  landscape, 
lying  on  the  slopes,  covering  the  valley  bottoms,  and 
appearing  without  warning  in  the  midst  of  an  other- 
wise unbroken  forest.  The  Northern  visitor  some- 
times compares  them,  to  their  disadvantage,  with 
other  cornfields  of  his  acquaintance,  where  noble 
stacks  stand  in  even  rows,  great  golden  pumpkins 
scattered  over  the  ground  between.  But  what  he 
does  not  consider  is  that  such  a  cornfield  would  be 
out  of  place  here,  and  the  golden  pumpkin  might 
strike  a  false  note.  Pumpkins  there  are,  it  is  true, 
but  they  are  pink,  thus  failing  in  one  of  the  most 
important  functions  of  a  pumpkin.  A  pink  pumpkin ! 
But  it  would  do  very  well  if  called  by  some  other 
name;  that  is,  as  an  ornament,  for  you  can  by  no 
means  make  good  pies  out  of  a  pink  pumpkin, 
"pumpkin  pie"  remaining  the  unchallenged  treas- 
ure of  the  North. 

In  course  of  time  the  ear  of  corn  also  disappears 
from  the  bereft  stalk,  it  is  "toted  "  home  and  husked, 
then  a  part  is  shelled  and  the  white  and  wrinkled 
kernels  ground  into  the  sweetest  meal  in  the  world, 
between  the  slow  stones  of  little  mills  that  stand 
along  the  water-courses.  If  a  man  is  successful  in 
life  and  owns  "right  smart  of  corn-land,"  he  will 
likely  have  his  own  mill,  though  it  may  be  no  larger 
than  a  good-sized  chicken  coop,  with  perhaps  a 
wooden  wheel,  taller  than  itself,  on  the  outside,  a 
wheel  that  turns  slowly  and  with  dignity,  the  silver 


74         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

water  dropping  from  the  broad  paddles  in  a  miniature 
cascade.  The  miller  in  the  smaller  mills  is  sometimes 
a  woman  in  a  sunbonnet,  but  running  the  mill  is 
not  very  hard  work,  since  it  often  consists  in  pouring 
the  corn  into  the  hopper,  then  going  away  for  a  few 
hours  or  all  day,  and  coming  back  in  the  fullness  of 
time  to  take  the  sweet  meal  from  the  box  below  the 
leisurely  stones. 

Besides  the  cornfields  there  are  those  frequent 
fields  of  something  that  "imitates  corn  a  right 
smart,"  as  the  people  say,  but  which  is  only  sorghum, 
from  which  in  the  fall  the  mountaineer  extracts 
molasses  for  home  consumption.  Sorghum  is  a  pic- 
turesque crop  from  first  to  last.  When  the  slender 
stalks  have  been  cut,  the  juice  is  expressed  from 
them  in  sugar-mills  simpler  even  than  the  corn-mills. 
Between  two  cogged  wheels  the  long  canes  are  fed 
by  a  patient  man  sitting  on  a  log,  while  the  wheels 
are  turned  by  a  patient  mule  at  the  end  of  a  long 
beam,  walking  forever  round  and  round  and  going 
nowhere.  During  this  process  the  family  is  generally 
grouped  about  the  mill,  while  the  vat  into  which  the 
sweet  juice  runs  is  the  scene  of  tragic  deaths,  as  into 
it  crowd  bees,  flies,  and  wasps  greedy  for  a  share  of 
the  harvest.  Near  the  cane-mill,  and  like  it  standing 
in  the  open  air,  is  a  large  pan  under  which  a  fire  is 
built  and  in  which  the  juice  is  boiled  —  bees  and  all. 
Standing  over  the  caldron  is  a  man  enveloped  in 
clouds  of  steam  as  with  a  long  pole  he  stirs  the  bub- 
bling sweet.  In  a  short  time  "them  molasses"  is 
done.  Sorghum  cannot  be  reduced  to  sugar,  or,  if  it 


THE   SORGHUM-CUTTER 


AUTUMN  75 

can  be,  it  never  is  here  in  the  mountains.  It  is  put 
into  jugs  and  provides  the  principal  "sweetening" 
of  the  family. 

Man  is  so  close  to  the  soil  here  that  he  recognizes 
the  relationship.  He  sees  his  bread  —  and  molasses 
—  come  directly  from  the  earth.  He  loves  the  land, 
and  the  ambition  of  every  youth  is  to  possess  a  little 
farm  of  his  own.  In  the  wild  forest  he  clears  a  place, 
plants  the  corn,  cultivates  it,  watches  it  grow, 
gathers  in  the  harvest,  grinds  the  meal  and  makes 
the  bread,  most  of  these  things  being  done  in  the 
open  air.  And  there  is  no  hurry.  He  feels  the  sun 
and  the  wind,  he  looks  into  the  forest  and  is  not 
afraid,  neither  is  he  unhappy.  The  cornfield  is 
almost  the  boundary  of  his  desires.  He  sells  corn,  or 
its  equivalent  in  "blockade,"  for  money  with  which 
to  supply  his  needs.  He  fattens  his  pigs  on  corn  and 
with  it  feeds  the  poultry.  The  mule  and  the  horse 
eat  corn,  knowing  no  other  grain.  It  is  fed  to  them 
on  the  cob,  since  shelling  corn  for  an  animal  able  to 
shell  it  for  himself  would  be  a  waste  of  time. 

Although  the  corn  is  the  hope  of  the  farmer,  one 
sees  an  occasional  oat-field,  and  sometimes  a  field  of 
wheat  or  rye,  but  these  seem  to  have  been  sown  for 
the  purpose  of  beautifying  the  landscape,  the  red 
soil  showing  through  the  scattering  blue  or  green 
stalks  with  pleasing  effect.  In  some  valleys  of  the 
higher  mountains  these  grains  may  be  raised  with 
profit,  but  on  the  eastern  slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge 
corn  is  the  safer  crop;  although  the  people  have  a 
beautiful  faith  in  the  possibilities  of  their  land,  one 


76         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

farmer  proudly  saying  of  his  venture  in  wheat,  "There 
never  was  no  better-headed  wheat  on  earth,  what 
there  was  of  it — but  there  wa'n't  none."  And  these 
fortunate  people  are  as  cheerful  under  failure  as 
they  are  hopeful  of  success  in  impossible  conditions. 
"What  you  doin'  up  there,  Dicky?"  your  driver 
calls  out  one  day  derisively  to  a  man  gathering  an 
almost  invisible  crop  from  a  hillside.  "Nigh  about 
nothin',"  Dicky  cheerfully  responds. 

Autumn  is  not  wholly  devoid  of  fruits,  though 
about  Traumfest  summer  claims  the  greater  share 
of  those  that  elsewhere  belong  to  the  later  season; 
maypops  linger  on,  and  when  their  time  is  past  there 
comes  the  triumphant  harvest  of  the  autumn,  which 
harvest  also  belongs  to  winter.  Persimmons  are 
ripe !  —  a  crop  that  never  fails.  When  the  autumn 
woods  are  in  their  glory,  the  persimmon  tree  is  cov- 
ered with  a  glory  of  its  own,  every  twig  being  loaded 
with  little  flattened  globes,  salmon  pink  in  color  and 
covered  with  a  bloom  that  in  the  shadows  is  deep 
blue.  But  be  careful  of  these  tricksy  fruits,  for  pretty 
as  they  are,  they  may  not  yet  be  perfectly  ripe,  and 
until  they  are,  nobody  —  not  even  the  most  longing 
negro  —  shakes  a  tree,  for  the  pucker  of  a  green  per- 
simmon is  such  as  to  set  even  the  teeth  of  memory  on 
edge.  When  ripe  they  begin  to  fall,  and  when  you 
find  a  treeful  of  good  ones,  for  there  is  great  choice  in 
persimmons,  you  will  know  why  the  negro  loves 
them  so. 

Inseparably  connected  with  the  persimmon  in 
one's  mind  is  the  'possum.    For  the  'possum  loves 


AUTUMN  77 

the  'simmon  as  the  nightingale  loves  the  rose.  Of  a 
dark  night  he  may  be  found  sitting  in  the  tree  among 
the  ripe  fruit.  He  gets  fat  on  'simmons,  and  acquires 
that  peculiarly  rich  and  delicate  flavor  so  highly 
appreciated  by  the  negro.  All  through  the  hunting 
season  you  are  wakened  by  the  excited  bark  of  the 
'possum  dog,  accompanied  by  the  wild  yells  of  the 
negroes  and  an  occasional  gunshot.  The  'possum 
dog,  like  the  poot,  is  born,  not  made.  You  can  never 
know  what  dog  will  develop  genius  in  this  direction, 
excepting  that  you  may  be  sure  it  will  be  one  of  pure 
mongrel  strain.  The  'possum  dog  is  no  beauty,  but 
he  is  worth  his  weight  in  'possums,  which  is  the  same 
as  saying  he  is  a  very  valuable  dog. 

There  is  no  denying  that  fat  'possum  is  a  dish  for 
the  gods.  If  you  live  in  the  South  you  will  doubtless 
some  day  bake  a  fat  'possum,  that  is  to  say,  you  will 
bake  it,  figuratively  speaking,  for  the  actual  task 
must  be  performed  by  a  generous,  genial  black  cook 
who  loves  'possum.  She  bakes  it  con  amore,  and  with 
sweet  potatoes.  The  memory  of  one's  first  'possum 
dinner  lingers  like  a  happy  dream.  After  eating 
it,  one  does  not  wonder  at  or  blame  the  negro  for 
spending  night  after  night  in  the  woods  —  to  the 
detriment  of  his  day's  work  —  in  hilarious  quest 
of  the  fat  'possum  sitting  among  the  persimmons, 
—  the  fatiguing,  happy,  and  exciting  hunt  to  have 
the  sequel  of  "baked  'possum  and  sweet  taters." 

Baked  'possum  is  the  Christmas  goose  of  the 
epicurean  negro,  and  as  the  season  moves  on,  the 
voice  of  the  'possum  dog  is  heard  in  the  woods  assist- 


78         THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

ing  in  the  preparations  for  that  season  of  high  living 
and  neglect  of  work  which  is  the  negro's  perquis- 
ite, inherited  by  him  from  the  days  of  slavery. 
"Christmas"  about  Traumfest  does  not  mean  a 
niggardly  twenty-fifth  of  December;  it  means  that, 
and  all  the  days  following,  until  sunset  of  New 
Year's  Day.  To  be  fair,  however,  one  must  add  that 
in  these  modern,  trying  times,  the  week-long  holiday 
is  very  much  interrupted  by  daily  labor.  It  is  a  fic- 
tion more  than  a  fact,  yet  it  no  doubt  adds  a  certain 
feeling  of  festivity  to  the  day's  work,  a  feeling  that 
one  is  somehow  having  an  extra  good  time,  though  it 
might  be  hard  to  tell  just  where  to  put  your  finger 
on  it. 


IX 

IS   IT  WINTER? 

IT  is  winter,  according  to  the  almanac,  and  the 
dates  on  the  Northern  newspapers  that  come  regu- 
larly and  too  often.  For  the  newspaper  is  a  sort  of 
inverted  anachronism  here  where  life  is  a  good  half- 
century  behind  the  times.  Why  waste  the  golden 
hours  reading  things  that  by  the  time  we  catch  up 
with  the  world  will  have  been  happily  forgotten  by 
everybody?  The  leaves  have  fallen,  but  it  does  not 
look  like  winter,  the  laurel  is  so  green  on  the  slopes 
and  the  pine  trees  are  so  sunny,  while  the  uninvited 
mistletoe  burdens  the  oaks  with  its  pale-green  form. 
Birds  are  singing  —  the  wren  always  believes  it  will 
be  summer  to-morrow,  and  comports  himself  ac- 
cordingly. The  air  acquires  a  sparkling  quality,  with- 
out wholly  losing  its  softness. 

The  native  people  speak  of  the  coming  of  winter 
as  a  calamity,  and  you,  too,  half  dread  the  cold  that 
is  to  pinch,  and  yet  does  not  come.  But  one  day  it 
does  come.  The  wind  howls,  the  air  is  icy,  and  your 
blood  chills.  You  fill  the  fireplace  with  logs,  and  re- 
sign yourself  to  the  inevitable.  But  in  three  days  you 
are  out  without  a  hat.  How  warm  the  sun,  how  deli- 
cious the  air!  And  was  there  ever  such  color  on  the 
mountains!  One  has  a  rare  surprise  in  this  color  of 
the  winter  mountains.    They  remain  so  warm  and 


8o         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

tender.  They  are  drowned  in  light,  and  assume  the 
marvelous  pale  blue  which  is  unlike  the  blue  of  other 
mountains.  But  sometimes  they  are  lilac,  and  blue  in 
the  shadows,  or  they  are  white  and  blue.  They  some- 
times look  white  through  the  trees,  a  pure  gleaming 
white  with  intense  blue  spaces,  though  there  is  no 
snow  on  them,  only  a  shimmering  light  as  though 
they  were  giving  back  the  sunshine  absorbed  by 
them  through  the  long  summer.  It  is  in  the  winter 
months  that  one  gets  that  glow  on  the  mountains,  so 
tempting  and  so  illusive  to  the  painter's  brush,  when 
towards  night  you  often  see  the  southern  slopes 
tinged  with  the  pink  of  the  wild  rose,  again  warm 
lilac  or  deep  red,  while  the  sky  and  the  earth  that 
inclose  them  are  sympathetic  shades  of  blue  and 
gray.  It  is  nearing  Christmas  and  Christmas  berries 
are  blazing  in  the  thickets.  Down  the  Pacolet  Valley 
rustling  canebrakes  are  green  and  gold,  while  golden 
sedge-grass  spreads  over  slope  after  slope,  its  silky 
white  plumes  trembling  in  the  breeze. 

In  our  drives  about  the  country  we  soon  discover 
why  the  people  dread  the  winter.  It  does  not  take 
very  cold  weather  to  make  one  shiver  over  an  open 
fire,  when  the  house  walls  are  open  to  every  breeze 
that  blows  and  one's  clothes  are  not  winter-proof. 
One  never  sees  a  winter  wood-pile  in  this  country, 
and  as  to  "  filling  the  cellar,"  with  the  ant-like  thrift 
of  the  New  Englander,  it  is  undreamed  of.  There 
are  no  cellars,  neither  the  quality  of  the  land  nor  the 
climate  lending  itself  favorably  to  cellars:  one  rea- 
son, perhaps,  for  dreading  the  winter.    Corn-pone, 


IS   IT  WINTER?  8i 

dried  beans,  and  salt  pork  must  get  somewhat 
monotonous,  even  to  those  who  love  them.  Store- 
houses are  almost  as  rare  as  cellars,  and  is  one  to 
deprecate  or  envy  a  state  of  mind  that  enables  people 
cheerfully  to  sell  their  corn  in  the  autumn  at  thirty 
cents  a  bushel,  with  the  certainty  that  they  will  have 
to  buy  it  in  the  spring  at  eighty  cents? 

We  take  advantage  of  each  soft  and  sunny  day, 
as  though  it  were  to  be  the  last.  It  is  yet  December, 
so  the  calendar  says,  but  along  the  roadside  one  sees 
a  maze  of  sunny,  yellow  petals,  the  witch-hazel  defy- 
ing the  season.  Gay  red  berries  are  falling  from  the 
trees,  and  little  bushes  are  crowded  with  coral  beads. 
The  holly  tree,  decked  with  scarlet,  stands  with  its 
toes  in  the  rippling  brook.  Jack-oak  leaves  glow 
tremendously,  and  crimson  horse-brier  makes  gay 
splashes  against  the  evergreen  pines. 

When  Christmas  comes,  the  people  celebrate  with 
firecrackers,  and  sometimes  they  have  fireworks  at 
night,  —  rockets,  pinwheels,  Roman  candles.  But  in 
the  remoter  places  there  is  no  Christmas.  Santa 
Claus  has  not  been  discovered,  and  the  day  passes 
without  notice. 

Days  come  at  last  when  you  resign  yourself  to 
endless  cold,  but  presently  the  sun  bursts  out  in  a 
fury,  and  your  blood  seems  to  feel  a  thrill  of  spring. 
This  is  premature,  however,  January  is  not  spring; 
and  we  are  smartly  reminded  of  that  when,  one  day 
amidst  howling  winds,  the  air  is  filled  with  snow. 
The  ground  now  is  white.  How  cold  we  are !  How 
exasperating  these  tumultuously  blazing  open  fires 


82         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

that  roast  you  on  one  side  while  you  freeze  on  the 
other !  One  resigns  one's  self  with  as  good  a  grace  as 
possible  to  the  cold  of  a  Southern  winter,  against 
which  one  is  so  defenseless,  when  you  discover  that 
a  change  has  come.  The  snow  is  all  gone.  You  are  a 
little  surprised,  and  crestfallen,  to  find  that  the  ex- 
treme cold  you  grumbled  so  about  has  lasted  just 
three  days.  Sometimes  there  comes  a  day  of  witch- 
ery, when  the  flakes  are  large  and  soft,  and  there  is  no 
wind.  Softly,  swiftly,  the  white  mantle  covers  the 
earth,  shrouds  the  trees,  the  green  bushes,  and  the 
tall,  brown  weeds.  How  lovely  is  the  pine  forest  at 
such  a  time!  Enjoy  it  while  you  can,  for  by  night 
fairyland  will  have  vanished. 

Thus  the  snow  comes  and  goes.  In  the  high 
mountains,  it  comes  earlier,  and  stays  longer,  but 
you  will  not  find  any  noticeable  preparation  for 
winter.  Even  the  sleds  you  sometimes  see  are  used 
to  haul  wood  in  summer. 

Days  of  fury  are  followed  by  days  of  sweetness 
and  warmth,  when  walking  leisurely  about  you  won- 
der at  the  size  of  the  laurel  and  azalea  buds  and  the 
buttons  on  the  dogwood  trees.  These  things  keep 
on  growing  as  though  they  did  not  really  believe  in 
winter  —  and  what  is  that?  A  large  gauzy-winged 
grasshopper  leaps  up  and  sails  away  at  your  ap- 
proach. As  you  watch  the  light  on  the  wings  of 
these  insects  that  dart  up  one  by  one  before  you,  as 
you  look  over  the  green  forest  shining  in  the  warm 
sun,  you  forget  where  you  are;  for  a  moment  you 
think  it  is  summer.   The  wren  has  evidently  made 


IS   IT  WINTER?  83 

the  same  mistake.  There  is  hardly  a  winter  day  se- 
vere enough  to  still  his  happy  song.  And  whenever 
there  come  those  frequent  warm  days  that  cause  the 
sap  to  stir  in  twigs  and  hearts  alike,  you  hear  the 
joyful  outpourings  of  other  birds,  those  wintering 
here,  or  those  belonging  here.  It  is  only  January, 
but  the  red-bird  has  begun  to  whistle  —  indeed, 
there  is  not  a  month  in  the  year  when  some  bird  is 
not  singing  a  joyous  song;  and  when  February  comes 
no  bird  holds  back  any  longer. 

When  the  ground  freezes,  or  snow  comes,  the 
birds  confidently  draw  near  to  the  houses,  and  at 
many  of  them  they  find  a  table  always  spread.  Over 
on  her  ridge  the  dear  lady  from  C.  beckons  you  to 
come  on  tiptoe  to  the  window,  and  see  the  hermit 
thrush  in  the  food-box  —  and  there  he  is,  whether 
you  can  believe  such  a  thing  or  not.  Another  bird- 
lover,  whose  back  door  opens  into  beautiful  spaces 
bounded  by  the  not  too  distant  form  of  Tryon 
Mountain,  has  also  persuaded  the  hermit  to  conquer 
his  shyness,  and  feed  from  her  stores. 

Birds  that,  according  to  the  books,  do  not  belong 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  are  frequently  seen  and  re- 
corded by  eyes  always  on  the  watch.  Thus  are  cap- 
tured —  in  the  records  —  many  a  stray  wight. 

There  is  one  bird,  however,  here  that  never  comes 
near  the  houses.  One  sees  him  drawing  marv^elous 
lines  in  the  sky,  rising  and  floating,  circling  about 
and  about  in  the  vast  spaces  of  the  air  on  apparently 
motionless  pinions.  What  is  it  that  thus  sustains 
the  incredible  flight  of  the  buzzard?    What  is  the 


84         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

secret  of  the  illimitable  wing  of  this  lonely  spirit  of 
the  sky,  whose  companions  are  the  clouds?  As  you 
sit  on  a  log,  some  winter  day,  absorbed  in  watching 
the  buzzard  wheeling  in  the  sky,  you  become  con- 
scious of  something  moving  on  the  ground,  and  look 
down  in  time  to  see  a  striped  chipmunk  whisk  be- 
hind a  stump.  Again,  your  unsuspected  companion 
may  be  a  gray  squirrel  who  betrays  himself  by  a 
quick  motion,  as  he  flirts  his  bushy  tail  around  a  tree- 
trunk  to  get  out  of  sight.  Squirrels  are  no  longer 
abundant  here,  they  have  been  hunted  so  remorse- 
lessly, but  in  the  fall  the  gray  squirrel  comes  in  com- 
panies to  harvest  the  nuts  of  your  trees,  —  or,  may 
it  be,  only  for  a  little  excursion  out  into  the  world? 
The  shy  little  red  squirrel  who  hides  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods  is  known  as  the  "mountain  boomer,"  a 
name  also  derisively  applied  to  the  mountaineer  by 
his  low-country  neighbors,  whose  own  title,  equally 
descriptive  one  supposes,  is  "tar-heel." 

Another  rodent,  abundant  but  seldom  molested, 
is  the  pretty  little  flying-squirrel,  whose  form  may 
sometimes  be  seen  at  dusk  bridging  the  space  be- 
tween one  tree-top  and  another,  like  a  miniature 
aeroplane.  He  is  a  gentle  little  creature,  but  a  sad 
rascal,  who  hides  by  day  and  chases  up  and  down 
between  your  walls  at  night,  coming  into  the  house 
and  gnawing  to  pieces  whatever  excites  his  admira- 
tion, though  he  never  deigns  to  taste  your  food. 
Although  a  nuisance,  he  is  better  than  rats,  which, 
the  people  say,  never  come  to  a  house  occupied  by 
flying-squirrels.  Of  course  the  common  rat  is  here  as 


IS  IT  WINTER?  85 

elsewhere,  but  he  is  not  very  abundant,  and  his 
place  is  sometimes  taken  by  the  comical  wood-rat, 
whose  curious  habits  are  not  destructive  to  anything 
but  your  nerves,  until  you  find  out  the  cause  of  those 
eerie  noises  that  render  the  night  uneasy. 

The  chipmunk  is  all  too  easily  tamed,  but,  what 
we  plume  ourselves  upon  cis  a  rare  occurrence,  we 
once  had  a  family  of  woodchucks  living  under  our 
porch.  They  came  out  at  dawn,  like  so  many  little 
bears,  and  we  watched  their  clumsy  yet  sinuous 
movements  through  the  flowers,  and  we  saw  them 
sit  up  and  with  their  hands  draw  down  our  best 
pinks  and  eat  ofT  all  the  blossoms. 

If  gray  squirrels  are  not  abundant,  rabbits  are. 
Hunting  does  not  seem  to  thin  their  ranks.  You 
often  see  a  bright  round  eye  turned  square  upon  you, 
as  you  are  walking  through  the  woods.  It  belongs 
to  Molly  Cottontail,  sitting  under  a  bush,  as  still  as 
a  mouse,  with  that  great  eye  sentinel  over  a  danger- 
ous world.  If  you  pause  or  leave  the  path,  she  is  ofT, 
a  vanishing  mist  of  gray  fur.  There  are  rabbit  paths 
everywhere  in  the  bushes,  so  that  one  must  needs  be 
careful,  and  not  stray  away  into  these  curious  high- 
ways of  the  furry  folk  that  go  nowhere  that  man,  or 
dog,  can  follow,  but  lead  the  unwary  into  thickets 
of  bushes  tied  together  by  prickly  vines.  Close  to 
the  ground  the  little  path  tunnels  its  way,  but  one 
would  need  be  as  small  as  the  rabbit  to  follow  it. 

There  are  places  where  one,  watching  quietly  at 
night,  can  see  the  rabbits  at  play.  And  when  snow 
is  on  the  ground,  who  but  they  make  those  double 


86         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

tracks  that  everywhere  line  the  woods,  usually  ac- 
companied by  the  prints  of  a  dog's  foot,  the  dog  him- 
self visible  to  your  mind's  eye  in  frantic  but  useless 
pursuit!  How  ridiculous  Molly  Cottontail  can  make 
poor  doggy  appear!  In  the  woods  you  hear  him 
barking  excitedly  as  he  runs  —  then  across  an  open 
space  drifts  a  fluff  of  fur.  After  it,  some  distance 
behind,  comes  the  dog,  not  resembling  in  the  least  a 
fluff  of  fur,  and  not  drifting.  The  contrast  between 
the  desperate  efforts  of  the  jointed  dog,  and  the  fleet 
farewell  of  the  little  vision  floating  off  ahead,  appar- 
ently without  effort,  makes  one  laugh  in  delight. 
All  winter  you  can  hear  the  whining  cry  of  the  hounds 
as  they  course  about,  hunting  for  their  own  amuse- 
ment or  accompanied  by  a  man  with  a  gun.  Other 
tracks  in  the  snow  are  made  by  the  birds :  —  here 
has  passed  quite  a  flock  of  quails,  and  here  has  gone 
hopping  along  —  a  robin,  perhaps. 

You  are  still  in  a  state  of  defense,  waiting  for  and 
dreading  the  winter  that  comes,  and  yet  does  not 
come,  when  one  day  you  find  the  alders  in  bloom! 
And  then,  walking  in  the  woods,  there  comes  a  sud- 
den, cinnamon-like  fragrance,  sweet,  spicy,  and 
clean.  You  would  say  flowers  were  blooming  some- 
where near.  And  there,  indeed,  under  the  trees  is  a 
little  bunch  of  brown-capped,  rosy  blossoms  —  the 
Carolina  pine-sap  that  scents  the  winter  woods  like 
a  breath  of  spring. 

After  this  there  will  undoubtedly  be  cold  days 
and  cold  storms  that  will  drive  you  into  the  chimney 
corner,  but  between  these  short,  cold  spells  how  hot 


IS   IT  WINTER?  87 

the  sun !  —  and  who  can  bcHev^e  in  winter,  seeing  the 
alders  in  bloom!  Besides,  the  birds,  one  might  say, 
are  also  in  bloom.  You  thought  they  sang  all  winter, 
but  when  you  hear  them  now  —  well,  you  need  no 
further  assurance  that  the  winter  is  over  and  gone. 
Yes,  the  winter  is  behind  you,  and  you  suddenly 
realize  that  you  have  spent  nearly  all  of  it  out  of 
doors,  and,  although  a  Northerner  and  a  skeptic, 
you  begin  to  believe  in  the  sun. 


X 

Cesar's  head  and  chimney  rock 

THERE  are  two  places  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
Blue  Ridge  that  one,  being  at  Traumfest, 
should  visit:  Caesar's  Head,  that  grand  promontory 
of  the  Blue  Ridge  that  at  one  commanding  point 
holds  back  the  tumultuous  sea  of  foothills  beating 
against  its  base,  and  Chimney  Rock,  one  of  the 
gentlest  and  most  charming  little  valleys  one 
could  wish  to  know.  Each  lies  a  long  day's  drive 
from  Traumfest,  one  to  the  south,  the  other  to  the 
north. 

The  way  to  Chimney  Rock  lies  through  valleys  of 
corn  and  along  sunny  slopes  where  the  cotton  grows, 
for  one  of  the  advantages  of  Traumfest  is  that  from 
it  you  can  step  down  into  the  cotton  country  that 
begins  at  the  foot  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  The  Northerner, 
whose  eye  has  never  swept  a  cotton-field  during  the 
changing  seasons,  imagines  that  its  only  moment  of 
interest  is  when  the  picturesque  negro  is  gathering 
the  harvest.  He  does  not  know  that  the  cotton,  like 
the  peach,  is  a  flower  as  well  as  a  crop,  the  starry- 
leaved  plant  bearing  large  lemon-yellow  and  rosy- 
red  hibiscus-like  flowers;  and  of  course  when  the 
great  pods  burst  and  the  fields  are  whitened  with  the 
snow  of  the  harvest,  it  is  worth  one's  while  to  take  a 
run  down  into  the  cotton  country.    On  the  lower 


CESAR'S  HEAD,   CHIMNEY  ROCK      89 

slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  the  cotton  resembles  the 
corn  in  its  sparse  growth.  The  red  soil  shows  through 
even  at  maturity,  and  as  summer  advances  the  mel- 
low reds,  yellows,  and  bronzes  of  the  leaves  and 
stems  cover  the  cotton-fields  with  a  rich  brocade  of 
colors. 

When  we  descend  to  the  cotton  country  in  quest 
of  Caesar's  Head,  we  cross  into  South  Carolina  and 
follow  well-known  and  very  red  roads  beneath  the 
eastern  front  of  Hogback  and  the  line  of  low,  rounded 
forms  that  lie  beyond  it,  and  that  end  in  the  abrupt 
and  shining  clififs  of  Glassy  Mountain.  Now,  the  real 
cause  for  a  pilgrimage  to  Caesar's  Head  is  the  view 
you  get  of  the  lowlands  that  lie  spread,  three  thou- 
sand feet  below  you,  a  magical  sea  of  light  and  color 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  For  whatever  else  the 
high  mountains  may  offer,  you  must  come  to  some 
favored  crest  of  the  Blue  Ridge  for  these  thrilling 
views  of  the  Southern  lowlands. 

From  Glassy  Rock,  on  the  top  of  Glassy  Moun- 
tain, there  is  an  outlook  rivaling  that  from  Caesar's 
Head,  and  here  some  day  you  will  go,  up  over  a 
road  so  execrable  that  you  will  finally  leave  the  car- 
riage and  walk,  or  else  you  will  perhaps  ride  horse- 
back the  whole  distance.  Upon  ascending  Glassy, 
one's  first  full  view  of  the  lowlands  is  from  a  sharp 
turn  in  the  road,  whence  on  a  clear  day  you  see  them 
quivering  below  you,  reaching  away  and  away  until 
they  enter  the  sky  at  the  far  horizon.  Then  glimpses 
of  them  come  and  go,  caught  through  a  green  veil 
of  pine  trees  that  wonderfully  intensifies  the  blues 


90         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

of  the  nearer  spaces.  It  is  the  magical  light,  the 
transforming  vast  sunshine  of  the  South  drenching 
the  plain  and  the  air,  mingling  as  it  were  the  sky  and 
the  earth,  that  transfigures  the  scene.  To  say  that 
the  lowlands  are  blue  gives  but  a  hint  of  the  truth. 
They  are  like  an  inverted  sky  meeting  the  real  sky 
at  the  horizon. 

As  you  follow  the  steep  way,  you  come  again  and 
again  to  some  open  place  whence  you  can  look  off 
over  the  plains,  and  when  the  corn  is  ripe,  and  you 
look  abroad  through  the  golden  screen  it  makes,  the 
wide  reach  of  the  lowlands  and  the  distant  blue 
heights  become  so  intense  in  color  as  almost  to  pain 
the  senses.  There  are  lonely  cabins  with  flowers 
about  them  at  long  intervals  all  the  way  up  Glassy, 
and  if  you  come  in  the  spring,  you  will  see  the  blue 
sky  above  and  the  blue  sea  below  through  a  veil  of 
peach  blossoms,  which  is  wonderful. 

We  cannot  see  Glassy  from  Traumfest,  as  it  lies 
behind  Hogback.  It  belongs  to  that  indefinite  and 
mysterious  region  known  as  the  "Dark  Corners," 
and  the  people  tell  us  of  wild  deeds  done  here  in  by- 
gone days.  But  there  is  no  hint  of  anything  ugly,  as 
one  ascends  its  rough  road  on  a  fair  day,  and  looks 
out  through  those  openings  across  the  azure  sea. 
The  road  leads  to  an  unpainted  church  on  the  top 
of  the  mountain  where  on  "preaching-day"  the 
women  assemble  in  their  best  black  sunbonnets  and 
the  men  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  From  the  lonely 
little  "church-house"  a  path  guides  you  to  the  top 
of  Glassy  Rock,  whose  steep  front  shines  like  glass 


CESAR'S  HEAD,   CHIMNEY   ROCK      91 

when  wet  —  which  is  much  of  the  time.  The  top  of 
the  rock  is  covered  with  those  crisp  and  aromatic 
growths  that  belong  to  mountain-tops,  and  which 
are  so  pleasant  to  rest  upon.  Moreover,  all  sorts  of 
dainty  little  wild  flowers  peep  out  from  the  crevices; 
and  from  it  one  gets  an  unobstructed  view  out  over 
that  ineffable  sea  of  color,  losing  itself  in  ineffable 
sky  spaces,  of  which  one  has  caught  glimpses  while 
ascending  the  mountain.  But  from  here  there  is  a 
wider  horizon  and  one  sees  the  long  and  lovely 
line  of  mountains  lying  like  islands  in  the  dreamy  sea, 
those  charming  ridges  where  the  mountains  come 
to  an  end. 

As  we  sit  here  one  day,  a  mountaineer  approaches, 
and,  pointing  to  a  man  crossing  a  field  on  muleback 
far  below,  laconically  remarks,  "That  gentleman's 
pa  was  killed  at  Glassy  Mounting  church."  Then 
he  tells  how  the  people  were  waiting  for  the  preacher 
to  come  one  Sunday,  when  suddenly  shots  were 
heard,  and  two  men  of  the  congregation  fell  dead. 
The  cause  of  this  ghastly  deed  was  the  usual  one,  a 
quarrel  between  two  moonshiners;  and  the  method 
of  revenge  was  characteristic,  one  of  the  men  having 
warned  the  other  that  if  he  went  to  church  next 
preaching-day,  he  would  have  him  arrested.  Of 
course  he  went.  Worse  things  than  this  have  hap- 
pened on  Glassy  Mountain,  notwithstanding  the 
enchanting  light  in  which  it  is  now  immersed. 
Glassy,  on  its  western  side,  has  many  a  wild  ravine 
for  those  who  wish  to  hide. 

If  bound  for  Caesar's  Head,  one  passes  the  Glassy 


92         THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Mountain  road  without  turning  in,  traverses  culti- 
vated valleys  and  a  long  reach  of  wild  forest,  until 
finally  the  road  climbs  in  long  curves  up  the  side  of 
the  Blue  Ridge  itself  to  where  the  settlement  of 
Caesar's  Head  lies,  nested  in  the  sunshine. 

There  is  a  change  of  climate  at  Csesar's  Head,  for 
it  is  four  thousand  feet  high.  One  sees  grass,  and  the 
air  is  cooler  and  more  stimulating  than  at  Traum- 
fest,  but  you  have  no  idea  where  you  really  are  until 
you  follow  the  path  under  the  trees  to  the  top  of  the 
terrible  cliff,  where,  looking  to  the  east,  one  sees 
radiant  mountains  rising  rank  above  rank,  while  to 
the  west  the  eye  plunges  into  an  abyss  floored  by  the 
glowing  sea  of  the  lowlands. 

Perhaps  the  most  impressive  view  of  the  lowlands 
is  from  a  point  below  the  top  of  the  cliff,  where, 
past  the  sharp  edge  of  near  and  substantial  rock,  the 
eye  leaps,  as  it  were,  out  into  space.  On  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  nature  has  sculptured  the  rude  outlines 
of  a  human  face,  from  which  we  are  told  this  com- 
manding spot  got  its  name.  The  cliff  itself,  towering 
above  those  vast  spaces,  does  honor  to  Caesar,  what- 
ever may  be  said  of  the  ape-like  profile. 

From  the  cliff  one  also  looks  directly  down  into 
the  "Dismal"  at  its  foot,  beyond  which  rises  the 
smooth  and  forbidding  stone  front  of  Table  Rock. 
The  Dismal  is  impressive  enough  at  any  time,  and 
it  may  give  you  one  of  the  grand  spectacular  mo- 
ments of  your  life  if  you  are  fortunate  enough  to 
stand  over  it  after  a  storm  at  sunset,  when  down 
from  the  mountains  roll  rivers  of  mist,  to  enter  the 


CESAR'S  HEAD,   CHIMNEY   ROCK      93 

abyss  of  the  Dismal  and  fill  it  with  glory.  Below, 
you  will  see  surging,  lifting  and  falling,  soft  thunder- 
heads  of  gold,  of  bronze,  of  copper,  and  purple.  The 
Dismal  seems  a  wizard's  gulf,  swallowing  the  hues 
of  the  heavens,  which  one  imagines  it  will  in  time 
cast  forth  again  to  sweep  over  the  sky.  And  walking 
back  towards  the  hotel  in  the  twilight  one  may  look 
through  an  open  space  at  Hogback  and  Glassy 
Mountains  against  a  calm  and  radiant  background, 
and  above  them  the  whole  Saluda  Range,  beautifully 
outlined. 

Besides  the  views  offered  by  the  position  of 
Caesar's  Head,  just  below  it  passes  one  of  the  few 
roads  that  cross  the  barrier  of  the  Blue  Ridge  to  the 
upper  mountains,  this  one  leading  to  the  renowned 
valley  of  the  French  Broad  River. 

Early  spring  is  a  good  time  to  visit  either  Caesar's 
Head  or  Chimney  Rock,  and  perhaps  you  will  turn 
towards  Chimney  Rock  before  nature  has  begun  to 
cover  her  red  soil  with  summer  verdure.  The  road 
leads  down  and  around  the  end  of  Tryon  Mountain 
and  between  the  hills  that  lie  to  the  north  of  it.  The 
grain  in  places  is  well  started;  here  and  there  you  see 
a  glowing  hillside  sparsely  covered  with  pale-blue 
rye  or  bright-green  wheat.  The  red  soil  is  furrowed 
in  concentric  lines,  curves  and  counter-curves ;  rows 
of  beans  are  visible,  and  young  corn-blades  are  up. 
Nature,  never  weary,  is  gayly  beginning  her  perennial 
task  of  feeding  the  world.  In  some  of  the  fields  cot- 
ton is  lifting  up  its  head,  and  about  the  houses  fruit 
trees  are  in  bloom. 


94         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

You  keep  the  "main  leading  wagon-road"  as  di- 
rected, cross  the  once  dreaded  torrent  of  Green  River, 
not  now  through  the  dangerous  ford,  but  over  a  safe, 
new  bridge.  The  Green  River,  —  so  green  as  you  cross 
it  on  the  train  up  in  the  mountains  beyond  Saluda, 
and  so  charming  in  the  "cove"  below  Saluda,  where 
water  and  banks  are  so  very,  very  green,  the  trees 
reaching  over  and  forbidding  the  sun  to  shine  too 
brightly  in  the  cool  solitude,  —  the  Green  River 
down  here  is  also  green,  though  it  has  already  begun 
to  lose  a  little  of  its  mountain  freshness. 

The  "main  leading  wagon-road"  finally  leads  you 
down  the  pretty  valley  of  Cane  Creek  to  the  wide 
Hickorynut  Gap  Road,  on  its  way  to  Rutherfordton, 
a  state  road,  if  one  is  not  mistaken.  Entering  it, 
you  turn  to  the  left  and  follow  it  up  the  Broad  River 
Valley  and  close  to  the  water  that  comes  in  jumps 
and  tumbles,  darting  and  whirling  down  from  its 
sources  in  the  high  springs  of  the  mountains.  Large 
trees  border  the  valley,  beeches  and  oaks  and  tulip- 
trees,  with  straight  dark  pines  for  color  balance. 
Looking  up  it,  you  see  one  of  those  happy  arrange- 
ments of  mountains  that  make  a  valley  something 
more  than  mere  solid  earth  and  running  water.  It  is 
these  overlapping,  down-reaching  mountains  that 
give  this  region  its  characteristic  charm.  For  the 
Broad  River  Valley  is  noted  for  its  beauty,  although 
it  has  no  high  mountains,  nor  any  remarkable 
grandeur  of  scenery. 

Crossing  a  charming,  though  somewhat  deep  and 
rocky  ford  of  the  Broad  River,  you  continue  on  up 


CESAR'S   HEAD,    CHIMNEY   ROCK      95 

the  beautiful  valley,  the  mountains  draw  in  about 
you,  and  you  are  at  "Logan's,"  a  large,  old-fashioned 
farmhouse  which  was  converted  to  the  uses  of  a  way- 
side inn  when  the  road  went  through  to  Ruther- 
fordton,  connecting  the  mountains  above  here  with 
the  low  country.  Logan's  is  "in  the  scenery,"  so 
they  tell  you  a  good  many  times  while  there  —  and 
unquestionably  it  is.  A  beautiful  cultivated  valley 
lies  about  the  house  enchantingly  surrounded  by 
mountains.  The  mountains  of  this  region,  although 
so  individual  in  form,  so  picturesque,  or  so  beauti- 
ful, are,  according  to  General  Logan,  worth  about  a 
cent  apiece,  there  is  so  little  soil  on  them. 

Close  to  us  is  the  Old  Rumbling  Bald,  high  up  on 
whose  rocky  top  is  what  appears  to  be  a  cabin,  but 
which  is  such  only  in  seeming  —  from  some  trick  of 
the  shadows  against  the  broken  rock.  This  is  pointed 
out  to  the  visitor  as  "Esmeralda's  cabin,"  so  named 
because  here  at  Logan's  the  author  of  "  Esmeralda" 
wrote  her  play  in  the  presence  of  the  Old  Rumbling 
Bald.  The  Old  Rumbling  Bald  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
noted  of  any  mountain  in  this  part  of  the  world.  Up 
to  1878,  he  was  just  the  "Old  Bald,"  but  then  he 
began  to  rumble  and  shake  the  earth,  and  thereby 
attained  a  distinction  that  set  him  apart  from  all  the 
other  mountains  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  Whatever 
else  the  others  were  or  did,  none  of  them  "rumbled." 
From  '78  to  '80  the  Old  Bald  kept  the  people  won- 
dering, and  those  near  him  apprehensive.  What  was 
he  rumbling  about?  Why  was  he  shaking  the  earth? 
And  what  would  he  do  next?   He  rumbled  his  last 


96         THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

rumble  in  '85,  we  were  told,  since  when  he  has  been 
as  quiet  as  of  old. 

To  look  at  the  rocky  wall  of  the  mountain  and  see 
the  clean,  new  granite  gives  one  an  intimation  of 
what  has  happened.  Great  slabs  and  cliffs  have  split 
off  and  settled  down,  no  doubt  "rumbling"  as  they 
went,  and  the  crack  that  suddenly  appeared  on  top 
has  grown  to  a  chasm  ten  feet  wide,  one  hundred 
feet  deep,  and  three  or  four  hundred  yards  long. 
Curiosity  prompts  you  to  approach  the  Old  Rum- 
bling Bald  over  a  pleasant  path  where  one  passes  a 
lonely  cabin  that  might  be  a  child  of  the  old  gray 
mountain,  and  out  of  which  comes  a  lovely  little 
girl  with  glorious  blue  eyes,  her  face  framed  in  a  wide- 
ruffled  pink  sunbonnet.  In  one  hand  she  carries  a 
pretty  basket  of  green  things,  and  in  the  other  a 
great  bunch  of  roses  and  snowballs.  We  climbed  Old 
Bald's  rocky  front,  stopping  for  a  long  draught  of 
icy  water  from  a  spring  that  comes  out  of  the  rocks, 
and  to  admire  the  thrifty  appearance  of  the  peach 
trees  in  an  orchard  on  the  stony  slope.  We  were 
told  that  these  bore  peaches  of  exceptionally  fine 
quality,  after  which  we  were  not  at  all  surprised  to 
learn  that  they  were  in  the  thermal  belt! 

At  last  we  get  to  a  great  crack  in  the  mountain  — 
not  the  chasm  on  top,  but  a  crack  lower  down,  that 
makes  a  series  of  caves,  from  the  threshold  of  which 
one  looks  out  between  massive  walls  of  granite  far 
down  the  valley,  over  the  tops  of  the  near  mountains, 
and  across  to  the  blue  line  of  the  horizon  against 
which  stands  outlined  the  beautiful  King's  Moun- 


CESAR'S  HEAD,   CHIMNEY  ROCK      97 

tain,  "where  we  whipped  Ferguson,"  our  guide  re- 
minds us.  It  is  a  commanding  view  down  over  the 
lowlands,  for  the  Old  Rumbling  Bald  is  the  last  of 
the  mountains  in  this  direction,  its  mighty  form 
standing  like  a  sentinel  above  the  lower  country, 
at  the  gateway  that  passes  between  it  and  Chimney 
Rock  Mountain,  just  across  the  valley. 

Then  we  go  into  the  cool  caverns  reached  by  nar- 
row halls  and  partly  by  ladder,  and  whose  walls  are 
of  freshly  exposed  granite,  where  great  slabs  and 
splinters  look  ready  to  fall  at  the  slightest  rumble. 
There  is  an  opening  to  the  sky  at  the  far  end,  but 
inaccessible.  But  there  is  a  "window"  that  lets  in 
light,  and  out  of  which  one  can  look  past  massive 
casements  of  solid  rock,  and  across  the  valley  to 
Chimney  Rock  Mountain  and  Sugarloaf,  and  be- 
tween other  and  lower  mountains  down  into  the  hot, 
quivering  blue  plains  of  the  lowlands.  It  is  delight- 
fully cool  in  the  caves,  and  as  one  looks  around  at 
the  fresh  granite  walls,  one  has  a  sense  of  being 
present  at  the  creation  of  the  earth. 

If  you  follow  up  the  Broad  River  Valley  as  far  as 
the  settlement  of  Bat  Cave,  you  will  find  another 
mountain  with  similar  cavernous  openings,  and 
some  one  will  guide  you  to  the  largest  of  these,  Bat 
Cave.  But  more  beautiful  than  Bat  Cave  is  the 
Broad  River  Valley  on  a  smiling  May  day,  with  its 
gentle  scenery,  its  fresh  growths,  and  its  lovely 
mountains,  and  in  it,  with  a  perfectly  justified  name, 
is  the  Mountain  View  Hotel,  and  —  of  course  — 
Esmeralda  Inn. 


98         THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

All  through  the  mountains  "faults"  in  the  rock 
occur,  usually  on  a  small  scale,  and  landslides  in 
some  sections  are  frequent;  while  at  Hot  Springs 
the  water  comes  forth  ready-heated  from  some 
internal  caldron,  as  though  to  keep  us  in  mind  that 
the  earth  we  live  on  is  yet  in  the  making,  even 
these  ancient  mountains  continually  changing  their 
shapes. 

Being  at  Bat  Cave,  we  can  continue  along  the  good 
road  over  the  watershed  that  separates  the  Broad 
River  from  Hickorynut  Creek,  and  down  the  Hick- 
orynuf  Creek  Valley,  on,  over  the  plateau  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  even  as  far  as  to  Asheville.  For  the 
Broad  River,  which  has  its  sources  on  the  eastern 
slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  has  no  connection  what- 
ever with  the  more  famous  French  Broad,  which 
runs  in  the  opposite  direction. 

But  one  must  not  leave  Logan's  yet,  not  before 
taking  that  delightful  walk  up  the  creek  to  the  Pools, 
a  series  of  large,  round,  fabulously  deep  pot-holes. 
There  are  three  of  them,  and,  according  to  the 
people,  one  of  them  has  no  bottom,  while  another  is 
one  hundred  feet  deep,  and  the  third,  eighty  feet 
deep.  Aside  from  their  invisible  depths,  the  pools 
are  worth  a  visit  because  of  the  visible  and  charming 
manner  in  which  Pool  Creek  comes  sliding  over 
smooth  rock  faces,  finally  to  leap  in  a  cascade  into 
pool  after  pool,  striking  with  force  and  whirling 
around  the  smooth  stone  wall  of  the  basin.  Pool 
Creek  has  many  cascades;  and  It  Is  shaded  by  tall 
trees,  and  bordered  by  the  beautiful  growths  of  the 


CESAR'S  HEAD,   CHIMNEY  ROCK      99 

region,  and  beset  with  wild  flowers,  in  their  season. 
So,  even  were  its  pools  of  commonplace  depths,  one 
would  look  back  with  pleasure  to  a  walk  up  the  en- 
chanting stream. 

The  Chimney  Rock  region  is  quite  noted  for  its 
waterfalls,  most  of  the  streams  that  come  from  that 
part  of  the  mountains  making  their  escape  to  the 
levels  below  by  long  leaps  down  the  walls.  And  the 
Broad  River  Valley  might  be  called  the  "Valley  of 
Many  Waters,"  with  its  long  cascades  and  its  rush- 
ing streams. 

Chimney  Rock  itself,  an  uphill  walk  of  an  hour  or 
more  from  Logan's,  and  from  which  the  place  is 
named,  is  a  great  pillar  of  solid  rock,  separated  from 
the  main  wall  of  the  near  mountain  and  rounded  by 
the  elements.  To  its  right  is  by  far  a  nobler  stone 
battlement,  but  the  distinction  of  Chimney  Rock  is 
in  its  total  separation  from  the  main  mass  of  the 
mountain,  which  here  rises  in  sheer,  bare  walls,  a 
characteristic  of  the  mountains  of  this  region, 
many  of  which  are  wooded  on  top  and  at  the  base, 
with  a  broad  girdle  of  bare  cliffs  between.  For  a  long 
time  Chimney  Rock  was  inaccessible,  but  now  any- 
body can  get  on  the  top  of  it,  simply  by  climbing  a 
stairway  and  crossing  a  timber  bridge  that  has 
brazenly  connected  the  lonely  summit  with  the 
common  world. 

On  the  rocky  top  three  or  four  dwarfed  and  twisted 
pine  trees  have  managed  to  grow.  At  the  base 
of  the  rock  and  of  the  mountain,  the  small  pink 
rhododendron  was  everywhere  in  bloom,  and,  as  we 


100       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

ascended,  a  delicious  fragrance  became  more  and 
more  perceptible,  until  we  discovered,  growing 
above  us  on  the  ledges  of  the  main  mountain,  great 
airy  masses  of  blossoming  fringe-trees  that  hung 
over  the  edges  of  the  cliffs  and  shone  white  in  the 
deep  woods  behind.  The  sparkleberry  bushes  were 
also  swinging  their  snowy  bells,  and  the  wild  goose- 
berries were  trying  to  rival  them  in  prodigality  of 
bloom.  These  gooseberries,  common  at  a  certain 
elevation,  are  very  wild,  indeed,  becoming,  as  they 
develop,  closely  covered  with  long  prickles,  which, 
however,  does  not  prevent  one  from  eating  them 
when  ripe. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  Chimney  Rock  up  the 
Broad  River  Valley  might  be  described  as  that  of 
grand  scenery  in  miniature.  It  is  the  atmosphere 
that  makes  the  mountains  here  so  charming,  for, 
seen  near  at  hand,  they  are  rather  forbidding  with 
their  stern,  bare  rocks.  They  are  frequently  finished 
on  one  side  into  rounded  turrets.  One  can  imagine 
that  there  might  be  times  when  this  part  of  the 
country  would  appear  less  seductive  than  it  appears 
on  a  fair  spring  day. 

Because  of  the  natural  phenomena,  so  abundant 
about  Chimney  Rock,  the  rumbling  mountain,  the 
caves,  the  Isolated  "chimney,"  it  is  not  surprising 
that  a  number  of  strange  legends  have  collected 
about  it,  in  which  ghostly  visitants  play  their  part, 
although  as  a  rule  the  mountain  people  are  not 
superstitious.  They  go  fearlessly  through  the  wilder- 
ness alone,  even  "lying  out"  with  their  herds,  or 


CESAR'S   HEAD,  CHIMNEY   ROCK      loi 

for  other  reasons,  with  no  apprehension  of  seeing 
anything  more  terrifying  than  a  bear  or  a  wild- 
cat, an  encounter  with  either  of  which  would  be 
regarded  by  the  mountain  man  as  a  most  fortunate 
adventure. 


XI 

THE   HIGH   MOUNTAINS 

THE  long,  curving  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  rising 
from  the  foothills  like  a  rampart,  guards  the 
mountain  region  that  lies  beyond  it  so  well  that  it 
is  difficult  to  find  an  entrance  through.  But  this 
charming  wall,  so  abrupt  on  its  eastern  side,  all  but 
disappears  when  looked  at  from  the  west,  for  on 
that  side  it  is  often  no  higher  than  the  plateau  of 
which  it  forms  the  eastern  boundary,  although  it 
rises  here  and  there  in  notable  peaks  such  as  the 
Grandfather,  the  Pinnacle,  Graybeard,  and  Stand- 
ing Indian  Mountains. 

The  plateau !  One  ascends  a  thousand  feet  above 
Traumfest  to  find,  not  a  flat  tableland,  but  a  new 
world  of  mountains,  mountains  that  might  have 
seated  themselves  aloft  for  the  delectation  of  man- 
kind, so  cool  and  fresh  and  yet  so  gracious  do  they 
appear  to  one  coming  up  among  them  through  some 
enchanted  gate  in  the  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  This 
plateau,  which  is  about  two  hundred  miles  long,  is 
bordered  on  the  east  by  the  long,  irregular,  un- 
broken, and  winding  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  and  on 
the  west  by  the  parallel  and  more  regular  line  of  high 
and  massive  mountains  known  as  the  Unaka  Range. 
The  Unaka,  unlike  the  Blue  Ridge,  is  divided  by 
deep  gorges  into  several  sections,  one  of  these  being 


THE  HIGH   MOUNTAINS  103 

the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  familiar  to  all  through 
the  stories  of  Charles  Egbert  Craddock,  where  they 
are  so  truly  and  charmingly  portrayed. 

The  plateau,  narrower  and  higher  in  the  north  and 
gradually  lowering  as  it  runs  southward,  is  crossed 
by  a  number  of  short  high  ranges.  At  its  narrowest 
point  just  north  of  the  Grandfather  Mountain,  it  is 
only  about  fifteen  miles  across,  and  all  this  northern 
portion  has  a  general  elevation  of  about  four  thou- 
sand feet,  that  is  to  say,  its  larger  valleys  lie  at  that 
elevation  surrounded  by  mountains.  South  of  the 
Grandfather  the  plateau  widens  out  to  about  sixty- 
five  miles  across  and  drops  until  its  larger  valleys 
lie  at  a  general  elevation  of  from  two  to  three  thou- 
sand feet.  But  while  the  valleys  here  are  lower,  the 
mountains  are  higher,  there  being  in  this  region 
many  of  the  highest  and  grandest  mountains  of  the 
whole  Appalachian  uplift. 

Along  the  crest  of  the  Unaka  runs  the  boundary 
line  between  North  Carolina  and  Tennessee.  On 
this  line  or  close  to  it,  now  on  one  side  and  now  on 
the  other,  lie  some  of  the  highest  mountains  of  the 
region,  although  the  most  remarkable  uplift  is  per- 
haps the  short  Black  Mountain  Range,  in  North 
Carolina,  well  away  from  the  Tennessee  border,  and 
where,  although  the  range  is  only  fifteen  miles  long, 
there  are  more  than  a  dozen  summits  above  six 
thousand  feet  in  elevation,  one  of  these,  Mount 
Mitchell,  671 1  feet  high,  being  the  highest  point 
east  of  the  Rockies. 

It  is  not  very  long  since  the  geographies  taught 


104       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

us  that  Mount  Washington  in  New  Hampshire,  with 
an  elevation  of  6293  feet,  was  the  highest  mountain 
in  the  East.  But  since  then  the  surveyors  have  been 
at  work  in  the  Southern  mountains,  to  find  in  the 
Great  Smokies,  the  Blacks,  and  the  Balsams  over 
twenty  peaks  higher  than  Mount  Washington.  A 
North  Carolina  government  report,  after  giving  a 
list  of  altitudes  of  the  principal  mountains,  concludes 
thus:  "In  all,  forty-three  peaks  of  six  thousand  feet 
and  upwards.  And  there  are  eighty-two  mountains 
which  exceed  in  height  five  thousand  feet,  and  closely 
approximate  six  thousand,  and  the  number  which 
exceed  four  thousand,  and  approximate  five  thou- 
sand are  innumerable." 

The  principal  mountains  between  the  two  border- 
ing chains  are  placed  in  a  somewhat  orderly  manner 
in  short  ranges  that  for  the  most  part  lie  nearly 
parallel  one  to  another,  crossing  the  plateau  in  a  gen- 
erally northwesterly  direction.  The  most  northerly 
of  these,  however,  the  beautiful  dome-shaped  Black 
Mountains  lying  to  the  north  of  Asheville,  is  not 
parallel  with  the  others,  but  runs  almost  north  from 
the  point  where  it  leaves  the  Blue  Ridge. 

Southwest  from  the  Blacks  and  to  the  south  of 
Asheville  rises  the  range  of  the  Newfound  Moun- 
tains, and  south  of  that  the  charming  Pisgah  Range 
that  takes  a  northeasterly  direction.  Next  in  order, 
and  nearly  parallel  to  the  Newfound  Mountains,  is 
the  high  Balsam  Range  containing  some  fifteen 
summits  exceeding  six  thousand  feet.  Then  comes 
the  wild  Cowee  Range,  then  the  bold  and  beautiful 


THE  HIGH   MOUNTAINS  105 

line  of  the  Nantahala,  beyond  which  the  mountain 
country  sinks  to  lower  levels  in  Georgia. 

A  knowledge  of  this  regularity  in  the  position  of 
the  more  important  mountains  is  helpful  to  the 
explorer,  though  it  is  by  no  means  apparent  to  the 
casual  observer,  who,  coming  up  among  them,  sees 
mountains  on  all  sides,  some  rising  close  at  hand  in 
ridges,  summits,  and  walls  of  foliage,  and  between 
these  and  over  their  heads  others  that  show  forth 
delicate,  spirit-like  forms  against  the  sky. 

Although  the  mountains  are  so  generally  covered 
with  hardwood  and  pine  forests,  the  upper  parts  of 
the  higher  ones  are  clad  in  a  dark,  unbroken  mantle 
of  spruce  and  balsam  fir,  and  many  have  "bald" 
summits  that,  covered  with  grass,  make  natural  pas- 
tures, sometimes  many  hundred  of  acres  in  extent. 

One  ascending  to  the  plateau  finds,  as  it  were,  the 
beautiful  world  on  the  slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  lifted 
skyward  with  its  fragrance,  its  flooding  sunlight, 
and  its  marvelous  colors  unimpaired.  The  dreamy 
Unaka  Range,  with  its  superb  group  of  the  Great 
Smokies,  takes  the  place  of  the  Blue  Ridge  in  the 
landscape,  but  it  Is  more  broken  in  contour,  rising  In 
massive  domes  and  lovely  rounded  peaks.  It  is  like 
the  fabric  of  a  dream  as  one  sees  It  In  the  distance. 
Through  the  gorges  that  cleave  its  stupendous  walls 
and  add  grandeur  to  the  scenery,  rush  the  rivers  of 
the  plateau  to  enter  the  Mississippi  by  way  of  the 
Tennessee  and  Ohio,  —  only  one  river  breaking 
through  the  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge  to  find  Its  way 
eastward  to  the  Atlantic,  for  the  plateau  slants  to 


io6       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  west  throwing  the  waters  towards  the  higher 
Unaka  Mountains.  Thus  the  Blue  Ridge,  in  spite  of 
its  lower  elevation,  is  the  watershed  of  the  mountain 
region. 

This  portion  of  the  Appalachian  system  where 
the  high  mountains  lie,  although  a  part  of  the  long 
uplift  reaching  from  Canada  to  Alabama,  and  in 
which  is  no  geological  break,  is  nevertheless  disso- 
ciated from  the  northern  part  by  its  higher  elevation 
and  lower  altitude,  these  differences  isolating  it  and 
betsowing  upon  it  its  rich  dower  of  beauty.  For  al- 
though there  are  higher  precipices  and  deeper  ra- 
vines here  than  in  the  North,  these  mountains  never 
convey  the  same  impression  of  sternness,  —  the 
everywhere  present  vegetation  that  rounds  the  out- 
lines and  the  soft  atmosphere  combining  to  give  the 
landscape  a  gentle  expression.  Perhaps  the  difference 
between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern  mountains 
can  be  expressed  by  saying  that  those  are  grand  and 
these  are  lovely.  In  the  magical  atmosphere  of  the 
South  you  see  the  Great  Smokies  like  wraiths  against 
the  western  sky,  the  Nantahalas  in  the  distance 
swimming  in  a  sea  of  glory,  the  stern  Balsams,  the 
fir-crowned  Blacks,  all  immersed  in  a  light  that 
transforms  them. 

Between  the  mountains  lie  enchanting  valleys, 
and  everywhere  bright  streams  are  running.  The 
brooks  or  "branches"  racing  down  the  slopes,  the 
rivers  rushing  along,  the  numberless  waterfalls  and 
the  ice-cold  springs  everywhere  gushing  out  of  the 
earth,  give  freshness  and  life  to  the  mountains.   But 


THE  HIGH   MOUNTAINS  107 

while  the  running  waters  are  so  abundant,  one  soon 
notices  the  complete  absence  of  natural  lakes.  Here 
are  none  of  those  beautiful  basins  that  so  enhance 
the  charm  of  our  Northern  mountain  regions. 

The  reason  for  this  difference  lies  far  back  in  the 
millenniums  when  the  great  ice  cap  that  lay  over  the 
northern  part  of  the  earth,  quite  covering  Mount 
Washington  and  all  that  region  where  the  New  Eng- 
land and  Canadian  lakes  now  lie,  stopped  short  of 
the  Southern  mountains.  Since  the  glaciers  that 
scooped  out  or  dammed  up  the  lake  beds  of  the 
North  never  reached  these  delectable  heights,  it 
happened  that  while  the  Northern  mountains  were 
being  scraped  bare  to  the  bone  by  relentless  ice,  the 
Southern  mountains  were  accumulating  that  soil 
out  of  which  has  been  woven  the  wonderful  mantle 
of  trees  that  clothes  them  from  top  to  bottom. 

Also,  because  the  glaciers  did  not  reach  them,  these 
mountains  were  able  to  weather  slowly  through  the 
ages,  which  has  produced  their  beautiful,  rounded 
contours,  although  there  are  some  very  rugged  clifTs 
among  them.  For  the  same  reason  the  best  soil  is 
often  found  near  the  top  of  the  mountains,  which 
accounts  for  the  curious  appearance  of  cornfields 
hung  up  like  wind-blown  banners  on  the  steepest 
slopes. 

It  is  largely  due  to  the  ancient  glaciers  that  the 
Northern  mountains  are  yet  so  bare  and  stony 
towards  the  top.  And  because  the  Northern  moun- 
tains are  so  cold  and  barren,  the  people  live  down 
below  and  look  up  to  them.    Here  the  people  live 


io8       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

among  the  mountains  themselves.  They  love  them, 
and  are  afraid  to  go  down  to  the  country  that  lies 
level  below,  because,  they  say,  if  you  go  out  of  the 
mountains  you  die.  And  truth  to  tell  very  likely 
you  do. 

One  of  the  pleasures  of  being  in  the  North  Carolina 
mountains  is  the  presence  of  the  simple  and  kindly 
people  scattered  everywhere  over  them,  this  great 
wilderness  containing  some  two  hundred  thousand 
inhabitants,  among  whom  may  be  found  men  and 
women  who  even  yet  have  never  ridden  on  a  railway 
train,  seen  an  automobile,  or  heard  of  an  aeroplane. 
Shut  up  within  the  barriers  of  the  mountains  and 
isolated  from  contact  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  the 
mountain  whites,  like  people  cast  upon  an  island  in 
mid-ocean,  have  developed  customs  and  a  dialect  of 
their  own.  With  their  quaint  speech  and  their  primi- 
tive life  they  form  perhaps  the  last  link  left  in  this 
country  between  the  complex  present  and  that  sim- 
ple past  when  man  satisfied  his  wants  from  the  bosom 
of  the  earth,  and  was  content  to  do  so.  All  over  the 
mountains  is  a  network  of  paths  and  each  path  leads 
to  the  door  of  a  friend.  One  need  not  fear  to  walk 
alone  from  village  to  village,  from  "settlement"  to 
"settlement,"  to  wander  at  will  in  this  vast  sweet 
forest,  where  every  man,  woman,  and  child  is  glad 
to  see  you  and  ready  to  help  you  get  what  you 
want. 

Thoroughly  to  enjoy  the  mountains,  however, 
you  must  walk,  or  ride  horseback.  There  are  roads 
everywhere,  but  too  often  to  drive  over  them  as- 


THE  HIGH   MOUNTAINS  109 

sumes  the  nature  of  an  adventure.  The  one  draw- 
back to  walking  is  the  crossing  of  the  waters,  for  the 
mountains  are  so  closely  veined  with  streams  that 
you  cannot  go  a  mile  without  having  to  cross  at  least 
one,  generally  on  a  "  footway  "  the  sight  of  which  fills 
the  novice  with  dismay.  They  are  often  very  pictur- 
esque, these  foot-logs,  but  one  is  apt  to  lose  sight  of 
that  in  the  imminence  of  having  to  walk  over  one. 
Some  of  the  bridges  are  good,  sound  tree-trunks  lev- 
eled on  the  upper  side  and  supplied  with  a  hand-rail, 
but  this  is  luxury.  His  wildest  currents  the  moun- 
taineer prefers  to  span  with  the  smallest  pole  that 
can  bear  his  weight,  and  his  wide  rivers  he  crosses  on 
a  "bench." 

You  will  be  likely  to  remember  your  first  bench. 
Imagine  long-legged  saw-horses  driven  into  the  bed 
of  the  river  the  length  of  a  long  plank  apart  —  two 
saw-horses  placed  tandem  at  each  junction.  Now 
imagine  a  plank  reaching  from  the  river-bank  to  the 
first  saw-horse,  and  supported  by  it  some  four  feet 
above  the  water.  A  short  gap  is  succeeded  by  another 
plank  extending  between  the  second  and  third  saw- 
horse  and  so  on  until  the  river  is  crossed.  Such  is 
the  bench.  A  good  recipe  for  crossing  your  first 
bench  is  to  imagine  that  somebody  is  looking  as  you 
step  up  on  it.  This  helps  you  to  assume  an  easy 
attitude,  as  though  you  were  there  for  the  scenery. 
Then  edge  along  a  step,  sideways,  and  again  stop  and 
thoughtfully  regard  the  beauties  of  nature;  thus,  edg- 
ing along  and  stopping  every  step  or  two  for  a  long 
and  reassuring  look  at  the  distant  tree- tops,  you  will 


no       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

get  to  the  first  saw-horse.   At  this  point  it  will  be 
well  to  use  your  own  judgment. 

But  one  loving  a  walk  need  not  refrain  because  of 
the  bridges.  You  soon  become  used  to  them,  and  a 
long  stick  is  so  great  a  help  as  to  rob  any  ordinary 
foot-log  of  more  than  half  its  terrors.  The  foot-log, 
indeed,  soon  becomes  one  of  the  pleasures  in  a 
mountain-walk,  for  it  seems  naturally  to  choose  the 
most  picturesque  place  on  the  stream,  generally 
beginning  and  ending  at  the  foot  of  a  large  tree.  To 
stand  mid-stream  on  a  broad,  squared  log  thrown 
across  from  bank  to  bank  and  guarded  by  a  rail  on 
one  side,  to  stand  there  and  watch  the  lights  glint- 
ing through  the  forest  foliage  on  the  swift,  rippling 
water,  to  look  into  the  deep  shadows  under  the 
clustering  laurel  and  rhododendron  bushes  and  the 
arching  tree  branches  both  up  and  down  the  stream, 
—  to  do  this  is  to  get  from  the  mountain  bridge 
enough  to  balance  other  moments  when  perchance 
a  three-cornered  fence-rail  thrown  across  the  top  of 
a  waterfall  offers  the  only  avenue  of  approach  to  the 
other  bank  of  the  stream. 


XII 

FLAT   ROCK  COMMUNITY,  AN   IDEAL  OF  THE   PAST 

THE  easiest  though  least  romantic  way  for  us  of 
Traumfest  to  scale  the  rampart  of  the  Blue 
Ridge,  and  storm  the  magical  heights  beyond,  is  to 
take  the  train  that  goes  to  Asheville.  Out  of  the 
gorge  of  the  Pacolet,  that  in  the  season  of  flowers  and 
in  the  right  light  is  a  fitting  gateway  to  the  imagined 
world  above,  the  train  climbs  with  the  help  of  two 
engines,  and  reaches  Saluda,  cool  and  breezy,  —  a 
favorite  summer  resort  for  the  Southerners  of  the 
low  country,  although  it  has  none  of  those  large  es- 
tates and  signs  of  a  courtly  past  that  so  charmingly 
distinguish  Flat  Rock  that  lies  farther  along  the  way. 
The  village  of  Saluda  lies  at  the  end  of  the  Saluda 
Mountains,  on  whose  slopes  are  born  the  headwaters 
of  the  Saluda  River  that  follows  down  a  little  valley 
back  of  Hogback  and  Rocky  Spur,  and  whose  name, 
Saluda,  or  Salutah,  means  ''river  of  corn,"  the  valley 
of  the  Saluda  for  many  miles  being,  indeed,  that 
most  charming  of  nature's  fancies  —  a  river  of  corn. 
Just  beyond  Saluda  the  train  crosses  the  becom- 
ingly named  Green  River,  and  then  on,  around,  and 
about  it  goes  till  the  Blue  Ridge  is  fairly  surmounted 
and  weareontopof  it,  aswellason  the  widest  stretch 
of  plateau  in  the  whole  mountain  region.  One  gets 
glimpses  of  blue  heights  through  the  pine  trees,  and 


112       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  air  one  breathes  Is  not  the  air  of  Traumfest,  for 
we  have  ascended  a  thousand  feet,  and  to  the  soft- 
ness of  the  Southern  air  is  added  a  fine,  keen  quality 
that  wakes  one  up.  In  time  the  train  reaches  Flat 
Rock,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  interesting  places 
in  the  mountains,  although  one  can  see  nothing  of  it 
from  the  railway  station. 

Long  before  a  train  had  surmounted  the  barrier 
wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  the  beauty,  and  salubrity  of 
the  high  mountains  had  called  up  from  the  eastern 
lowlands  people  of  wealth  and  refinement  to  make 
here  and  there  their  summer  homes.  The  first  and 
most  important  of  these  patrician  settlements  was 
at  Flat  Rock,  the  people  coming  from  Charleston, 
the  centre  of  civilization  in  the  Far  South,  and 
choosing  Flat  Rock  because  of  its  accessibility,  and 
because  the  level  nature  of  the  country  offered  oppor- 
tunity for  the  development  of  beautiful  estates  and 
the  making  of  pleasure  roads  through  the  primeval 
forest  that  in  those  days  had  not  been  disturbed. 
Into  the  great,  sweet  wilderness,  now  quite  safe  from 
Indians,  these  children  of  fortune  brought  their  ser- 
vants and  their  laborers,  and  selecting  the  finest 
sites,  whence  were  extensive  views  of  the  not  too 
distant  mountains,  surrounded  by  the  charming 
growths  of  the  region,  in  a  land  emblazoned  and 
carpeted  with  flowers,  built  their  homes  of  refuge 
from  the  burning  heat  and  the  equally  burning  mos- 
quitoes of  the  coast  land. 

The  train  comes  from  the  seacoast  to-day,  but 
half  a  century  ago  it  was  much  more  of  an  under- 


FLAT  ROCK  COMMUNITY  113 

taking  to  go  to  Flat  Rock  from  Charleston  than  it 
now  is  to  go  to  Europe,  and  much  more  romantic, 
for  Flat  Rock,  more  than  two  weeks'  journey  dis- 
tant, had  to  be  reached  by  way  of  the  country  roads 
over  which  the  people  drove  in  their  own  carriages, 
accompanied  by  a  retinue  of  servants  and  provision 
wagons. 

At  the  west  side  of  Hogback,  there  comes  up  from 
the  lowlands  a  road  that,  crossing  a  gap  in  the  moun- 
tains, makes  its  way  over  and  about  and  between 
them,  passing  Flat  Rock  on  its  way  to  Asheville. 
This  is  the  old  Buncombe  Pike,  or  rather  what  is 
left  of  it,  for  since  the  war  it  has  been  allowed  to  fall 
into  disrepair,  only  parts  of  it  here  and  there  hinting 
at  any  period  of  prosperity.  From  the  opening  of  its 
first  tollgate,  in  1827,  this  road  became  the  great 
artery  of  passage  between  the  rich  Southern  lands 
and  the  new  and  prodigiously  fertile  West.  Over  it 
passed  droves  of  horses,  cattle,  sheep,  and  hogs,  as 
well  as  whatever  produce  the  mountains  and  the 
lands  beyond  them  might  have  to  exchange  for  the 
products  of  the  more  civilized  East,  products  that  in 
their  turn  came  up  and  over  the  mountains  to  the 
people  of  the  West.  To  the  romance  of  this  old  road 
was  added  a  charming  touch  when,  with  the  spring 
flowers,  there  came  every  year  that  migration  from 
Charleston,  like  a  flock  of  birds  winging  their  way 
over  the  blue  mountains  in  search  of  their  summer 
homes. 

One  can  Imagine  these  processions  of  young  and 
old  starting  out  for  the  two  weeks'  picnic  along  the 


114       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

road,  a  picnic  to  the  young  people  at  least,  who  one 
can  well  believe  looked  forward  to  it  undaunted  by 
any  thought  of  the  possible  storms  that  might  put 
the  rivers  in  flood,  and  convert  the  roads,  even  the 
best  of  them,  in  places,  into  bottomless  sloughs  of 
red  and  liquid  mud,  a  procession  that  makes  one 
think  of  the  stories  of  far-away  times,  when  queens 
and  princesses  traveled  from  one  city  to  another  over 
roads  as  bad  as  these.  This  procession  up  the  moun- 
tains had  fewer  trappings  on  the  horses  and  less  gayly 
attired  escort  than  did  those  of  the  olden  time;  but 
we  may  be  sure  that  the  carriages  of  the  gentlefolk 
of  the  nineteenth  century  were  pleasanter  convey- 
ances than  the  mule  litters  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
we  may  also  be  sure  that  no  lovelier  faces  looked  out 
from  the  gorgeous  retinue  on  its  way  across  the  hills 
of  the  past  than  could  be  seen  in  the  carriages  where 
sat  the  ladies  of  the  New  World,  with  their  patrician 
beauty  and  their  gracious  manners.  And  although 
the  escort  of  the  New  World  travelers  did  not  num- 
ber a  thousand  gayly  dressed  cavaliers,  it  consisted 
of  a  retinue  of  those  ebony  children  of  the  sun,  who 
loved  the  pleasant  journey,  and  loved  their  gentle 
lords  and  ladles,  —  for  all  this  happened  In  those 
halcyon  days  "before  the  war"  when  the  angel  of 
wrath  had  not  yet  righted  the  wrong  of  holding  even 
a  black  man  In  subjection  to  the  will  of  another, 
and  when  the  real  "quality"  cherished  their  slaves 
and  were  greatly  loved  by  them. 

It  must  have  been  like  coming  to  Arcadia,  up  from 
the  heated  plains,  in  those  days  before  the  forests 


FLAT  ROCK  COMMUNITY  115 

had  been  hurt  by  man,  when  every  stream  was  full  of 
fish,  and  the  surrounding  forests  were  full  of  game. 
Flat  Rock,  at  first  consisting  of  only  a  few  families, 
soon  grew  into  a  good-sized  community  of  delightful 
homes,  and  there  is  still  an  air  of  elegance  and  seclu- 
sion about  its  old  estates,  with  their  mansions  of  a 
by-gone  day  set  back  behind  the  trees,  and  there  are 
yet  living  a  few  who  remember  with  tenderness  and 
regret  the  old  days  when  life  at  Flat  Rock  was  a 
joyous  round  of  visits  and  merrymakings,  among 
which  costume  balls  for  the  young  people,  and 
dinner-parties  for  their  elders,  are  recalled  with 
retrospective  pleasure,  while  the  boulevard  of  the 
time,  the  Little  River  Road,  was  thronged  with  car- 
riages and  riders,  all  enjoying  themselves  in  the 
wonderful  air  —  exchanging  greetings  and  making 
a  gay  scene  in  the  midst  of  the  wild  nature  that 
surrounded  them. 

One  of  the  most  charming  of  these  old  places, 
"The  Lodge,"  with  its  broad  views,  its  avenues  of 
big  trees,  its  formal  garden,  its  old-fashioned  kitchen 
and  commodious  outbuildings,  was  owned  and  laid 
out  by  one  of  the  English  Barings,  of  banking  fame, 
and  here,  following  a  certain  path  that  leads  through 
the  grounds  towards  the  road,  one  comes  to  a  gate 
that  appears  to  be  closed  by  short  bars,  but  when 
you  touch  one  of  these  bars,  down  it  falls  and  all  the 
rest  with  it,  allowing  you  to  pass,  when  it  closes 
again.  It  is  a  "tumble-down  stile"  like  the  one  near 
Stratford-on-Avon,  which  your  driver  assures  you  is 
the  very  one  where  Will  Shakespeare,  poacher,  was 


Ii6       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

caught  trying  to  get  through  with  a  deer  on  his 
shoulders. 

One  cannot  help  noticing,  when  wandering  about 
the  winding  roads  of  Flat  Rock,  the  white  pines  and 
hemlocks  there,  and  that  the  soil  is  gray.  White 
pines  and  hemlocks  are  the  right  trees  for  such  a 
place,  where  one  looks  over  broad  meadows  and  into 
apple  orchards,  and  where  trees  and  shrubbery  are 
grouped  to  please  the  eye,  the  native  rhododendrons 
giving  a  fine  patrician  touch  to  the  effect  of  the 
whole.  The  box  hedges  and  the  shrubberies,  the  high 
fences  along  the  roadside  at  Flat  Rock,  speak  of 
another  civilization  than  that  of  the  mountains,  as 
does  the  picturesque  church  of  St.  John-in-the- 
Wilderness  behind  its  screening  trees,  and  it  is  very 
pleasant  to  pause  a  little  in  this  corner  of  the  great 
wilderness,  set  apart  and  beautified  by  the  "quality" 
of  a  past  generation. 

It  was  the  builder  of  the  Lodge,  Mr.  Charles  Bar- 
ing, with  three  or  four  others,  who  founded  the  com- 
munity of  Flat  Rock,  to  which  were  quickly  added 
the  homes  of  many  of  the  most  distinguished  men 
in  the  history  of  their  state.  Among  the  names  of 
these  pioneers  in  the  forest  of  Arcadia,  w^e  find  Rut- 
ledge,  Lowndes,  Elliott,  Pinckney,  Middleton,  and 
many  others.  Coming  somewhat  later,  as  friends  of 
Mr.  Baring,  were  Mr.  Molyneux,  British  Consul  at 
Savannah,  and  Count  de  ChoiseuH,  French  Consul 
at  the  same  place,  the  beautiful  homes  of  these  dis- 
tinguished foreigners  still  gracing  Flat  Rock. 

Perhaps  the  most  cherished  name  in  this  moun- 


FLAT  ROCK   COMMUNITY  117 

tain  settlement  was  that  of  the  Rev.  John  G.  Dray- 
ton, for  many  years  rector  of  St.  John-in-the-Wil- 
derness,  and  to  whom  the  dignified  and  noble  estate 
of  Ravenswood  at  Flat  Rock  owes  its  origin,  as  well 
as  those  wonderful  magnolia  gardens  on  the  Ashley 
River  near  Charleston,  gardens  where  one  wanders 
away  into  a  dreamland  of  flowers  unlike  any  other 
dreamland  in  the  world. 

Then  there  was  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  of 
the  Confederate  States,  Mr.  G.  C.  Memminger, 
loved  for  his  generosity  and  public  spirit,  who  also 
had  a  home  in  the  fortunate  land  of  flowers  and 
fresh  air. 

And  always,  when  talking  to  any  of  the  old  resi- 
dents of  Flat  Rock,  comes  forth  the  name  of  Dr. 
Mitchell  C.  King,  who,  for  more  than  half  a  century, 
was  the  greatly  loved  physician  of  the  community, 
and  who,  while  a  student  at  the  University  of  Got- 
tingen,  formed  so  warm  a  friendship  with  a  fellow 
student,  known  as  Otto  von  Bismarck,  that,  for 
many  years  after,  a  regular  correspondence  was 
carried  on  between  the  greatest  statesman  Germany 
has  ever  known  and  the  genial  and  kindly  physi- 
cian of  the  little  mountain  settlement,  these  letters 
being  carefully  preserved  by  the  descendants  of  the 
doctor. 

The  estates  at  Flat  Rock  have  changed  hands  with 
the  passing  of  time,  yet  many  of  them  retain  their 
original  form,  and  new  estates  have  been  added  by 
the  "quality"  of  to-day;  also  new  roads,  beautifully 
planned,  and  beautifully  bordered  with  the  choicest 


Ii8        THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

growths  of  the  mountains,  have  been  built,  giving 
promise  of  a  renaissance  that  shall  surpass  in  beauty 
the  accomplishment  of  the  older  civilization  of  Flat 
Rock,  and  give  direction,  let  us  hope,  to  the  future 
development  of  all  that  beautiful  region. 


XIII 

ASHEVILLE 

A  SHORT  distance  beyond  Flat  Rock,  the  train 
stops  at  Hendersonville,  a  gay  garden  of  build- 
ings as  seen  in  the  distance,  and  where  upon  arriving 
one  is  dismayed  to  hear  the  poiif!  poufi  of  an  automo- 
bile. For  Hendersonville  has  recently  grown  into  a 
place  of  importance  where  summer  visitors  congre- 
gate, and  it  would  also  like  you  to  know  it  is  a  rail- 
way centre.  At  least,  besides  the  main  line  running 
through  it,  there  is  that  branch  line  crossing  over 
into  the  French  Broad  Valley  and  proceeding  up 
past  Brevard  and  on  over  the  mountains  into  the 
Sapphire  Country,  that  enchanting  region  where, 
besides  silver  cascades  and  blue  mountains,  one  finds 
sumptuous  hotels,  artificial  lakes,  and  the  ways  of 
the  world. 

Beyond  Hendersonville  the  train  continues  across 
the  plateau  some  sixteen  miles  to  Asheville,  villages, 
from  each  of  which  one  gets  beautiful  views,  growing 
closer  together.  These  villages  in  the  forest,  not  visi- 
ble from  the  train,  make  pleasant  summer  resorts 
for  the  increasing  numbers  of  those  who  come  up  to 
escape  the  heat  of  the  plains.  Each  of  them,  of 
course,  is  destined  to  a  great  future,  and  the  young- 
est and  smallest,  the  one  that  bears  the  name  of 
Tuxedo,  must  perforce  bear  more  than  this,  for  the 


120        THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

trainmen  in  calling  out  the  station  prick  the  bubble 
of  ambition  by  putting  the  accent  on  the  last  sylla- 
ble, when  they  do  not  put  it  on  the  first. 

Two  miles  before  reaching  Asheville,  the  train  stops 
at  a  place  which  might  cause  the  bewildered  trav- 
eler, if  unprepared,  to  wonder  where  he  is.  A  corner 
out  of  some  village  of  old  England  seems  to  have 
been  set  down  bodily  in  the  heart  of  the  New  World 
wilderness.  It  is  the  village  of  Biltmore,  lying  in  full 
view  from  the  train  on  a  perfectly  level  space,  a 
charming  collection  of  houses  surrounded  by  smooth 
lawns,  wreathed  in  vines,  shaded  by  trees,  and 
grouped  about  a  square  and  along  winding  streets. 
A  church.  Early  Gothic  in  style,  with  a  strong  square 
central  tower,  is  the  natural  and  dignified  centre  of 
the  village.  The  beauty  of  the  interior  of  the  church 
is  enhanced  by  a  number  of  fine  stained-glass  win- 
dows, one  of  which  was  placed  there  to  the  memory 
of  Frederick  Law  Olmsted,  America's  greatest  land- 
scape gardener,  who  laid  out  the  grounds  of  Bilt- 
more, and  another  as  a  memorial  to  Richard  M. 
Hunt,  who  designed  the  church  as  well  as  Biltmore 
House,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  which, 
standing  three  miles  away,  is  not  visible  from  the 
train. 

Coming  suddenly  upon  Biltmore  out  of  the  sur- 
rounding forest,  one  has  a  prophetic  sense  of  the 
change  that  is  about  to  overwhelm  these  so  long 
changeless  mountains,  and  at  Biltmore  one  must 
stop  and  become  acquainted  with  the  very  interest- 
ing development  that  has  there  taken  place.   First, 


ASHEVILLE  121 

however,  Asheville,  the  oldest,  largest,  and  best- 
known  town  in  the  mountains,  must  be  considered, 
since  some  knowledge  of  its  history  is  necessary  in 
order  to  understand  the  history  of  the  mountains, 
including  Biltmore. 

Leaving  Biltmore  the  train  soon  reaches  the  city, 
for  Asheville  really  is  a  city,  with  a  population  fall- 
ing a  little  short  of  twenty  thousand.  It  lies  in  the 
valley  of  the  French  Broad  River,  which  is  far  too 
narrow  to  hold  it,  so  that  the  town  has  spread  out 
over  the  surrounding  hills,  many  of  its  houses,  like 
those  of  Traumfest,  standing  with  their  lower  regions 
on  the  slope  beneath,  and  their  front  door  decorously 
opening  at  street  level.  The  history  of  Asheville, 
though  not  hoary  with  age,  is  yet  interesting.  Clearly 
to  comprehend  it  one  must  retire  to  the  year  1663, 
at  which  time  Charles  the  Second  of  England  gave 
"Carolina"  so  munificently  to  the  lords  proprietary, 
the  territory  thus  summarily  disposed  of  reaching 
from  Virginia  to  Florida,  and  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific.  This  tract  was  subsequently  divided 
into  several  large  states,  one  of  them  being  North 
Carolina,  or  the  "Old  North  State,"  as  the  people 
fondly  called  it. 

The  Old  North  State,  a  territory  larger  than  New 
York,  the  Empire  State  of  the  North,  became  the 
goal  of  so  varied  an  emigration  that  in  1754  a  public 
document  declares  its  population  to  be  composed  of 
almost  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  so  fast  did  it 
grow  that,  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  North 
Carolina  ranked  fourth  in  population  among  the 


122        THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

thirteen  colonies.  As  the  people  increased  in  num- 
bers, the  bolder  and  more  independent  spirits 
among  them  pressed  farther  into  the  wilderness, 
finally  reaching  the  mountains  where  their  energies 
found  vent  in  fishing,  trapping,  and  fighting  the 
Indians.  The  people  of  the  Old  North  State  from 
the  mountains  to  the  sea  have  always  been  noted 
for  their  fearlessness  and  independence,  these  quali- 
ties in  no  degree  decreasing  as  the  pioneer  element 
of  the  early  settlers  pressed  towards  the  dangerous 
mountain  wilderness. 

Beyond  the  Blue  Ridge,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
vast  unbroken  forest  that  covered  the  high  unknown 
mountains.  Buncombe  County  was  erected  in  1791, 
so  large  in  area  that  its  people  proudly  called  it  the 
"State  of  Buncombe,"  but  which  in  course  of  time 
shrank  to  its  present  dimensions  of  about  four  hun- 
dred square  miles,  keeping,  however,  its  most  pre- 
cious gem,  Asheville,  as  well  as  the  noblest  of  its 
scenery,  its  ancient  pride,  and  its  name,  which  latter 
has  made  it  the  best-known  and  most  exploited 
county  in  the  mountains,  in  the  state,  and  indeed 
in  the  country  at  large,  a  county  name  seldom  reach- 
ing the  fame  of  Buncombe. 

Asheville,  if  not  actually  old,  is  at  least  old  rela- 
tively, for  here  stood  the  first  settlement  of  white 
people  in  the  mountains  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 
This  settlement  was  started  soon  after  the  Revolu- 
tionary War,  as  prior  to  that  time  the  Indians 
had  not  learned  to  respect  their  neighbors'  scalps 
sufficiently  to  make  life    among  them  agreeable, 


ASHEVILLE  123 

and  only  trappers  and  hunters  ventured  into  this 
hazardous  region,  then  swarming  with  game. 

The  little  group  of  log  houses,  at  first  called  Mor- 
ristown,  later,  by  the  desire  of  the  people,  was 
named  Asheville,  in  honor  of  Samuel  Ashe,  the  well- 
loved  governor  of  the  state,  and  one  of  a  family  of 
gentlemen  and  heroes  who  loyally  defended  their 
adopted  country  against  British  rule,  there  being 
no  less  than  five  ofhcers  serving  at  one  time  from  this 
family  during  the  Revolutionary  War,  The  origin 
of  the  name  of  the  tow^n  explains  the  indignation 
felt  by  the  people  when  careless  strangers  spell  the 
first  syllable  without  the  letter  e. 

The  stories  of  the  early  settlement  of  the  South 
are  as  thrilling  as  stories  of  settlement  in  any  part 
of  the  New  World;  there  was  the  same  reckless 
bravery,  the  same  opposition  to  oppression,  the  same 
spirit  of  adventure,  the  same  encounters  with  Indi- 
ans, the  same  defiance  of  hardship  and  overcoming 
of  difficulties,  that  afforded  such  stirring  material 
to  early  writers  in  the  North. 

The  little  hamlet  up  in  the  mountain  wilderness 
that  thus  honored  the  name  of  Ashe  consisted  at 
first  of  less  than  a  dozen  log  cabins,  but  those  cabins 
had  been  put  there  by  the  kind  of  men  who  see  a  city 
when  they  look  at  a  forest,  and  who  regard  an  obsta- 
cle, including  hostile  Indians,  as  a  happy  chance  to 
do  something.  Since  they  were  made  of  the  stuff 
that  takes  an  axe  and  goes  confidently  into  the  woods 
to  hew  out  a  nation,  they  were  also  prophets,  as  wit- 
ness the  case  of  Zebulon  Baird,  a  zealous  promoter  of 


124        THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  interests  of  the  community,  who,  pleading  most 
eloquently  in  the  general  assembly  for  an  appropria- 
tion for  a  wagon-road  over  the  mountains,  uttered 
the  wild  prophecy  that  his  children  would  live  to  see 
the  day  when  a  stage-coach  with  four  horses  would 
be  seen  in  the  west,  and  the  driver's  horn  would 
wake  the  echoes  of  the  mountains!  The  road  was 
granted,  and  came  up  from  the  eastern  foothills  of 
North  Carolina  some  miles  north  of  the  railroad  that 
now  runs  from  Saluda  through  the  Pacolet  Valley  to 
Asheville.  It  crossed  the  Swannanoa  Gap  at  the 
present  "long  tunnel"  on  the  Southern  Railroad,  a 
few  miles  above  Old  Fort,  where  as  early  as  1770  a 
small  fort  had  been  built  to  keep  back  the  Indians 
who  frequently  poured  down  from  the  gap  upon  the 
settlers  below  the  mountains,  and  which  to-day  is  a 
small  village  with  a  railroad  station.  This  road  fol- 
lowed down  the  Swannanoa  Valley  to  the  present 
site  of  Biltmore,  crossed  where  Asheville  now  stands, 
and  continued  down  the  beautiful  French  Broad  as 
far  as  Hot  Springs,  connecting  the  mountains  with 
the  western  wilderness  of  Tennessee  as  well  as  with 
the  better-settled  eastern  foothills.  The  first  wagon 
passed  from  North  Carolina  to  Tennessee  in  1795, 
and  the  making  of  this,  the  first  road  in  the  moun- 
tains, is  recorded  as  marking  an  epoch  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  country,  and  if  the  prophecy  of  Zebulon 
Baird  was  not  fulfilled  to  the  letter,  as  it  probably 
was,  one  has  only  to  look  at  the  railway  trains  now 
passing  many  times  daily  over  the  route,  broadly 
speaking,  of   that  first  wagon-road,  to  know  that 


ASHEVILLE  125 

the  prophecy  was  fulfilled  in  spirit.  Zebulon  Baird, 
besides  being  a  prophet  and  a  legislator,  was  an 
enterprising  business  man,  he  and  another  man 
being  the  first  merchants  of  Buncombe  County. 
To  be  a  merchant  in  Buncombe  in  those  days,  when 
produce  had  to  be  obtained,  guarded,  and  carried 
on  muleback,  or  over  the  new  wagon-road,  —  which, 
judging  from  the  conduct  of  wagon-roads  in  the 
mountains  to-day,  must  often  have  been  a  feat  in 
itself,  —  called  for  the  same  kind  of  courage  and 
skill  necessary  to  a  general  in  an  army.  And  that 
Zebulon  Baird  did  not  neglect  the  aesthetic  needs  of 
the  human  heart  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  it  was  he 
who  introduced  the  jew's-harp  into  the  mountains, 
that  dulcet  instrument  which  has  remained  to  this 
day  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  The  life  of 
the  pioneer  develops  those  quaint,  humorous,  or 
sterling  characters  that  make  easy  the  path  of  the 
novelist;  and  the  imagination  lingers  with  pleasure 
over  the  picture  of  George  Swain,  postmaster,  who 
for  twenty  years,  it  is  said,  was  never  absent  on 
arrival  of  the  mail,  and  who  distributed  every  letter 
with  his  own  hands!  The  Asheville  Post-ofiice,  that 
in  1806  became  the  distributing  centre  for  Tennessee, 
Georgia,  North  Carolina,  and  South  Carolina,  prob- 
ably did  not  receive  letters  enough  to  overtax  the 
powers  of  a  strong  man,  and  one  can  see  the  zealous 
postmaster  eagerly  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  mail 
that  was  to  be  consigned  by  him,  and  him  alone,  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the,  to  him,  known  world. 

The  sterling  qualities  of  the  postmaster  were  in- 


126       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

herlted  by  his  gifted  son,  David  Lowrey  Swain,  one 
of  the  most  honored  names  not  only  of  the  moun- 
tains but  of  the  State  of  North  Carolina.  He  was 
born  in  a  log  cabin  at  Beaver  Dam,  near  Asheville, 
at  the  foot  of  Elk  Mountain,  in  1801,  and  was  edu- 
cated at  "Newton  Academy,"  along  with 'all  the 
ambitious  boys  of  that  day,  who  came  from  far  and 
near  to  profit  by  the  instruction  of  the  Rev.  George 
Newton,  who,  as  early  as  1797,  started  a  classical 
school  at  a  place  a  mile  south  of  Asheville.  From  the 
log  school-house  in  the  mountains  David  went  to 
the  University  of  North  Carolina  that  had  recently 
been  established  at  Chapel  Hill,  near  Raleigh,  then 
to  Raleigh,  where  at  the  age  of  twenty- two  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar.  From  that  time  all  the  honors 
within  the  gift  of  the  people  were  heaped  upon  him. 
Before  he  was  thirty  he  had  been  elected  five  times 
to  the  legislature  as  well  as  entrusted  with  other 
important  public  functions,  including  his  election  as 
judge  of  the  supreme  court,  which  office  he  resigned 
after  two  years,  upon  being  elected,  when  only 
thirty-one  years  old,  governor  of  the  state.  While 
governor  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  conven- 
tion to  revise  the  constitution,  and  in  the  same  year 
was  proffered  the  presidency  of  the  University  of 
North  Carolina,  which  important  position  he  oc- 
cupied for  more  than  twenty-five  years.  Swain 
County,  taken  from  Buncombe,  was  named  after 
him,  and  his  name  is  still  cherished  in  the  hearts  of 
his  loyal  countrymen. 

The  founders  of  Asheville  chose  the  strategic  posi- 


ASHEVILLE  127 

tion  of  the  mountains  for  their  settlement,  which 
lay  on  the  natural  line  of  travel  between  the  fertile 
plains  of  the  new  West  and  the  lowlands  of  the 
South,  and  which  took  an  important  step  towards 
fame  and  fortune  when,  in  1880,  a  turnpike  road, 
the  famous  Buncombe  Pike,  was  chartered  to  pass 
from  Paint  Rock  on  the  Tennessee  line  across  the 
mountains  to  Greenville,  South  Carolina,  by  way  of 
Saluda  Gap,  Paint  Rock  lying  on  the  French  Broad 
River  a  few  miles  below  Hot  Springs,  the  terminus 
of  that  first  road  whose  course  has  already  been 
indicated.  It  is  one  thing  to  charter  a  road  in  the 
mountain  wilderness,  another  to  build  it,  and  not 
until  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  later  was  this 
great  thoroughfare  betw^een  the  South  and  the  West 
opened. 

Meantime,  Asheville  had  not  been  standing  still, 
as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  in  18 14  there  was  built 
within  her  borders  —  a  frame  house.  A  great  e^^ent 
this,  you  can  imagine,  in  a  country  where  the  saw- 
mill had  not  begun  its  triumphant  career.  This  first 
frame  house  was  built  by  James  Patton,  whose 
name  is  on  the  honor  list  of  the  settlers  of  this  part 
of  the  country,  and  after  whom  the  principal  street 
of  Asheville,  Patton  Avenue,  was  named.  He  had 
come  up  into  the  mountains  from  the  lowlands  in 
1792,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  and  taken  a  large  tract 
of  land  on  the  Swannanoa  River.  By  birth  an 
Irishman  and  by  trade  a  weaver,  he  came  to  the  New 
W^orld,  like  so  many  others,  to  make  a  place  for  him- 
self, and  by  the  untrammeled  use  of  his  natural 


128        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

gifts  he  succeeded.  A  man  of  sterling  worth  and 
honorable  methods  he  developed  the  resources 
within  his  reach,  finally  becoming  one  of  the  fore- 
most merchants  In  the  little  community  where  the 
merchant  was  the  man  of  importance.  We  are  told 
that  "traffic  over  the  new  road  was  immense,  vast 
droves  of  horses,  mules,  cattle,  and  hogs  being  driven 
from  the  rich  pasture  lands  of  Tennessee  and  Ken- 
tucky to  South  Carolina  and  Georgia,"  in  conse- 
quence of  which  "  a  large  trade  grew  up  at  Ashevllle." 
At  that  time  the  present  site  of  the  city  was  owned 
entirely  by  James  Patton  and  James  M.  Smith,  the 
latter  distinguished  as  being  the  first  white  child 
born  in  North  Carolina  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 
Only  the  site  was  there,  however,  not  the  city,  for 
though  we  are  assured  that  between  1805  and  1844 
Ashevllle  had  nearly  doubled  In  size,  we  know  that 
even  so  it  contained  less  than  a  score  of  buildings, 
notable  among  which  was  a  frame  store  building  in 
South  Main  Street,  owned  by  Mr.  Montreville 
Patton. 

The  older  frame  house,  built  by  the  elder  Patton, 
was  not  to  be  eclipsed,  however,  for  it  became  en- 
larged Into  the  once  famous  "  Eagle  Hotel,"  with  the 
distinction  of  being  the  first  three-story  building 
erected  in  that  county  so  dear  to  the  early  settlers, 
and  whose  name  was  to  give  a  new  word  to  the  dic- 
tionary, and  a  new  phrase  to  the  political  and  lit- 
erary worlds.  For  although  the  county  was  named 
after  Colonel  Edward  Buncombe,  a  brave  officer  In 
the  American  army,  its  notoriety  Is  due  to  one  of  its 


ASHEVILLE  129 

own  unique  children,  by  name  Felix  Walker,  whose 
fluency  of  speech  had  earned  for  him  the  popular 
title  of  "  the  old  oil  jug."  Being  patriotic  as  well  as 
fluent,  Mr.  Walker  sang  praises  of  Buncombe  County 
in  season  and  out  of  season,  and,  having  been  sent 
as  first  Member  of  Congress  from  that  district,  he 
arose  to  address  the  House.  Here  was  his  chance, 
and  although  he  had  nothing  of  importance  to  say, 
he  ambled  on  until  many  members  left  the  hall,  when 
he  kindly  told  the  survivors  that  they  might  go  too  if 
they  liked,  as  he  would  speak  for  some  time  longer, 
apologetically  explaining  that  "he  was  only  talking 
for  Buncombe." 

The  new  road  not  only  gave  a  great  impetus  to  the 
commercial  development  of  Asheville,  but  brought 
to  the  mountains  the  wealthy  aristocrats  of  the  low- 
lands, who  came  each  summer  to  enjoy  the  climate 
and  scenery  of  the  mountains  on  the  estates  they 
acquired  and  beautified  in  that  lovely  land,  the 
greatest  number  and  the  finest  of  these  estates 
lying,  as  we  know,  at  Flat  Rock.  But  while  the  city 
visitors  came  in  pomp  up  the  mountains  in  the  en- 
chanting spring  and  went  back  in  the  glorious 
autumn,  the  merchants  of  Asheville  and  the  other 
mountain  settlements  went  down  in  the  late  fall  on 
horseback,  their  wives  and  daughters  accompanying 
them  in  carriages,  a  train  of  loaded  wagons  bearing 
the  produce  of  the  mountains  to  be  exchanged  for 
the  luxuries  of  the  city.  While  the  men  attended  to 
business,  the  other  members  of  the  family  enjoyed  a 
few  weeks  in  the  delights  of  city  life,  when  all  went 


130       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

back  home  again.  These  visits  to  the  great  world 
were  confined,  of  course,  to  those  who  had  been  able 
to  profit  by  the  advantages  of  the  situation  in  the 
mountains,  where  life  was  yet  primitive  and  most 
men  poor. 

But  Asheville  was  moving  on,  and  in  1835,  we  are 
told.  Dr.  Samuel  Dickson  established  there  the  first 
young  ladies'  seminary,  so  admirable  an  institution 
that  there  came  to  it  not  only  the  girls  of  the  region, 
but  also  many  from  the  low  country.  This  school 
was  held  in  the  first  brick  building  in  Asheville, 
described  as  a  handsome  colonial  residence  on  South 
Main  Street. 

Both  the  Newton  Academy  and  the  Young  Ladies' 
Seminary  were  established  and  taught  by  Presby- 
terian ministers,  and  the  first  church  was  Presby- 
terian, a  large  and  comfortable  brick  building,  we 
are  told,  having  been  built  on  a  beautiful  site  pre- 
sented by  James  Patton  and  Samuel  Chunn,  where 
the  Presbyterian  church  now  stands.  The  Aletho- 
dists  began  in  a  wooden  school-house  on  the  site 
of  the  present  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  The 
Episcopalians  made  a  small  beginning,  but  In  1849 
were  able  to  build  their  church  on  land  given  them 
by  James  W.  Patton,  where  the  present  church  now 
stands. 

The  Baptists  had  the  hardest  time  of  all  at  first, 
but  the  unflagging  efforts  of  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Stradley,  an  Englishman  who  for  many  years  was 
almost  the  sole  representative  of  the  Baptists  In  this 
region,  were  finally  crowned  with  success,  and  he  got 


ASHEVILLE  131 

both  congregation  and  church.  But  if  the  Baptists 
had  difficulty  in  getting  started,  their  turn  came 
later,  for  their  doctrine  so  appealed  to  the  people 
outside  the  town,  or  their  zeal  was  so  great,  that  in 
a  few  years  practically  the  whole  rural  population 
was  Baptist,  or  "  babdist"  as  the  country  people 
always  say. 

From  1 840  to  1 860  was  the  golden  period,  as  we  are 
told,  of  Buncombe's  history,  when  comfort  reigned 
and  hospitality  was  the  rule.  Big  state-coaches  ran 
daily  from  Asheville  to  the  three  nearest  railroad 
points,  sixty  miles  away,  for  the  railroads  of  those 
days  stopped  when  they  encountered  the  bulwarks 
of  the  mountains.  Then  came  the  Civil  War,  when 
the  old  order  passed  away  and  the  whole  South  was 
prostrated  for  a  time.  Deserters  from  both  sides 
took  refuge  in  the  mountains.  Desperadoes  of  the 
worst  sort  lived  in  caves  and  raided  the  country. 
Nevertheless,  by  1870  Asheville  had  grown  to  fifteen 
hundred  inhabitants,  with  eight  or  ten  stores,  and 
that  influx  of  Northern  travel  had  begun  which  was 
to  give  it  its  next  wave  of  prosperity. 

In  1876  the  first  railroad  triumphantly  scaled  the 
Blue  Ridge,  coming  up  from  Spartanburg,  South 
Carolina,  ascending  at  the  south  of  Tryon  Mountain 
by  way  of  the  Pacolet  Valley.  But  this  feat  so  ex- 
hausted its  resources  that  it  was  ten  years  before  it 
got  from  Hendersonville  to  Asheville.  Meantime, 
the  state  of  North  Carolina,  in  1881,  built  a  railroad 
that,  approaching  the  mountains  from  Salisbury  by 
way  of  Morgantown,  followed  the  course  of  the  first 


132       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

turnpike  past  Old  Fort,  surmounted  the  troublesome 
Blue  Ridge  in  a  series  of  curves  and  spirals  and 
windings  that  was  a  feat  of  engineering,  finally  tun- 
neling through  the  mountain  and  continuing  down 
the  Swannanoa  Valley  to  Biltmore,  where,  turning 
westward,  it  went  on  to  Asheville,  whence,  in  1882, 
the  line  was  completed  to  Paint  Rock.  The  town  now 
grew  so  rapidly  that,  in  1887,  it  proudly  boasted  of 
eight  thousand  inhabitants,  and  of  having  become 
one  of  the  leading  resorts  of  the  South,  thousands  of 
tourists  coming  there  from  nearly  every  state  and 
territory  in  the  Union,  while  banks,  hotels,  clubs, 
schools,  and  churches  appeared  as  by  magic.  About 
this  time,  also,  the  estate  of  Biltmore  was  purchased 
by  Mr.  Vanderbilt,  the  development  of  which  was 
destined  to  play  an  important  part  in  the  civiliza- 
tion of  the  mountains. 

Then  did  the  prophets  again  raise  their  voices, 
the  guidebook  of  the  day  predicting  within  a  decade 
or  two  a  city  of  from  twenty  to  thirty  thousand  per- 
manent residents,  with  new  railroads,  half  a  score 
of  fine  hotels,  hills  and  valleys  dotted  with  villas, 
and  river-banks  lined  with  manufacturing  establish- 
ments of  various  kinds  giving  employment  to  thou- 
sands of  operatives.  Two  decades  have  passed  since 
then,  and  the  prophecy  has  been  fulfilled  with  a  few 
extras  thrown  in  in  the  way  of  costly  waterworks, 
electric  lights,  street-cars,  and  automobiles. 

But  the  prosperity  was  not  unbroken.  For  a 
number  of  years  Asheville  was  a  noted  asylum  for 
tuberculosis  patients;  then  its  transient  population 


ASHEVILLE  133 

began  to  wane,  its  beautiful  climate  was  declared 
not  suited  to  the  disease  in  its  more  advanced  stages, 
rivals  grew  up  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  the 
sick  deserted,  and  the  well  were  afraid  to  come  be- 
cause so  many  invalids  had  been  harbored  there. 
But  this  reversal  of  fortune  was  short-lived,  and 
Asheville,  marked  for  a  bigger  destiny  than  that  of  a 
mere  health  resort,  is  beginning  a  new  era  with  a  fast 
increasing  population  whose  interests  are  centred 
there.  The  prophets  who  cast  roseate  lights  over  the 
future  are  again  predicting,  and  the  only  mistake 
these  soaring  souls  are  likely  to  make  is  that  they 
may  fly  too  low.  For  besides  the  suddenly  awakened 
lumber  industry,  already  representing  millions  of 
dollars,  and  the  many  new  mining  operations  that 
are  starting,  the  fine  water-power  is  attracting  man- 
ufacturers to  the  mountains,  of  which  Asheville  is, 
and  always  must  be,  the  centre. 

That  Buncombe  yet  exerts  her  old  power  over 
those  who  fall  under  the  spell  of  her  magic  is  shown 
by  the  presence  of  the  Vance  Monument  in  Pack 
Square,  erected  to  the  memory  of  Zebulon  B.  Vance, 
of  Buncombe,  governor  and  senator,  but  given  by 
the  people  of  to-day,  largely  assisted  by  Mr.  George 
W.  Pack,  after  whom  the  square  is  named,  for  though 
not  a  native  of  Buncombe  Mr.  Pack  has  enhanced 
the  beauty  and  advanced  the  interests  of  the  county 
with  the  greatest  generosity. 

New  men  are  coming,  and  new  names  are  being 
added  to  the  long  list  of  enthusiasts  who  have  worked 
and  talked  "for  Buncombe,"  but  the  names  of  those 


134        THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

early  settlers,  only  a  few  of  which  have  here  been 
given,  are  preserved  in  the  streams  and  valleys  about 
Asheville,  every  name  redolent  of  the  history  of  the 
past.  Crossing  Davidson's  River  near  Brevard,  for 
instance,  you  will  recall  that  the  first  county  court 
was  held  at  the  log  house  of  William  Davidson  at 
the  "Gum  Spring"  on  the  Swannanoa  River.  And 
hurrying  down  the  beautiful  gorge  of  the  French 
Broad  on  the  railroad  you  pass  Alexander,  the  prin- 
cipal trading  station  in  those  old  days  when  traffic 
went  on  four  legs,  and  was  so  heavy  that  Captain 
Alexander  sometimes  stood  dealing  out  corn  three 
days  and  nights  in  succession  without  time  to  go  to 
his  meals. 

To-day  Asheville  takes  itself  seriously  as  a  city, 
and  you  are  tempted  to  grant  the  assumption  when 
you  see  automobiles  driving  through  the  streets  as 
unconcernedly  as  in  New  York  or  Washington. 
Street-cars  come  from  various  directions  to  a  socia- 
ble gathering  in  Pack  Square,  the  heart  of  the  city. 
These  same  cars  take  you  to  the  confines  of  town, 
or  up  over  neighboring  mountain  slopes  to  com- 
manding viewpoints.  You  go  to  Asheville  to  do  your 
shopping  and  to  see  the  world.  There  are  imposing 
castle-like  hotels  there,  modern  and  handsome  houses 
on  the  residence  streets,  a  great  many  small  houses, 
and  outlying  districts  where  the  cottages  are  occupied 
by  colonies  of  negroes.  Yet  you  can  never  make  the 
mistake  of  supposing  yourself  in  a  real  city  when  in 
Asheville,  for  you  have  only  to  lift  your  eyes  to  see 
the  vast  green  forest  pressing  close  about  you  and 


ASHEVILLE  135 

the  mountains  rolling  away,  peak  after  peak,  to  the 
far  horizon.  Besides,  in  spite  of  its  urban  airs  there 
is  the  ever-conquering  sun,  shining  on  Asheville  and 
drowning  the  mountains  in  its  sweet  Southern  haze, 
there  is  the  balmy  languor  of  the  South  and  the  mel- 
low voice  of  the  negro,  to  make  you  feel  yourself  in 
some  secluded  haven  of  rest,  some  happy  escape 
from  the  turmoil  and  strife  of  a  city,  and  this  in 
spite  of  the  census  and  the  convenience  of  street- 
cars. 

But  to  the  native  mountaineer  Asheville  is  not 
only  a  city,  it  is  the  city.  Deep  in  the  wilderness  the 
people  may  never  have  heard  of  London  or  Paris, 
and  but  vaguely  of  New  York,  but  Asheville  is  a 
reality.  It  is  the  true  centre  of  civilization.  Happen- 
ing one  day  to  speak  to  a  man,  living  near  Roan 
Mountain,  of  the  World's  Fair  that  had  been  re- 
cently held  in  some,  to  him,  unknown  city,  he  showed 
a  great  deal  of  interest,  but  thought  the  location  of 
the  fair  a  mistake.  "  Why  did  n't  they  have  it  where 
everybody  could  go?"  he  complained;  "why  did  n't 
they  have  it  in  Asheville." 

The  hills  of  Asheville  lie  at  an  elevation  of  about 
two  thousand  feet,  and  are  surrounded  by  mountains 
that  stretch  away  in  summits  and  ranges  in  whatever 
direction  one  may  look.  That  beautiful  form  with 
the  dome-like  top,  southwest  of  Asheville,  is  ?^Iount 
Pisgah,  and  that  ridge,  a  little  lower  and  to  the  left 
of  the  summit,  is  the  Rat.  "  Pisgah  and  the  Rat ! "  — 
the  two  names  inexorably  yoked  together  because 
the  two  shapes  make  one  group,  and  the  lower  of 


136       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

them  has  a  form  so  suggestive  that  there  is  no 
escape  for  it.  They  are  so  near  Asheville  as  to 
attract  immediate  attention  from  the  newcomer, 
who,  according  to  his  temperament,  is  shocked  or 
amused  at  his  first  introduction  to  "  Pisgah  and  the 
Rat." 

It  is  Asheville's  position  which  has  made  it  so  long 
a  favorite  with  those  seeking  these  mountains  for 
their  pleasure.  From  its  hills  one  looks  away  to  peaks 
and  ranges  not  too  near  and  not  too  far,  and  one 
feels  to  the  full  that  sense  of  elevation  and  of  great 
sky  expanse,  which  is  so  notable  a  part  of  the  land- 
scape of  this  region  that  the  name,  "Land  of  the 
Sky,"  once  felicitously  bestowed  upon  it,  has  clung 
to  it  ever  since. 

It  would  be  tiresome  to  enumerate  the  mountains 
visible  from  the  various  hills  of  Asheville,  one  looks 
out  upon  so  many,  from  the  grand  chain  of  the  near 
Balsams  on  the  west  to  the  distant  Craggy  and  Black 
Mountains  towards  the  north,  but  one  never  gets 
tired  of  looking  at  them,  and  in  these  later  days  good 
roads  lead  away  to  parks  and  viewpoints,  to  the  near 
and  some  of  the  distant  villages,  and  to  the  arti- 
ficial lakes  now  being  made  in  increasing  numbers 
to  supply  scenery  and  mosquitoes  to  the  tourist;  for 
the  pleasure-seeking  tourist  has  found  the  moun- 
tains, there  is  no  escaping  that  momentous  fact, 
and  the  mountaineer  is  everywhere  waking  up  from 
his  long  slumber  and  beginning  as  it  were  to  look 
about  him. 

There  is  so  much  that  is  interesting  in  Asheville 


ASHEVILLE  137 

and  the  country  roundabout  that  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand what  Mr.  Walker  felt,  for,  like  him,  having 
once  started,  it  is  hard,  even  for  a  stranger,  to  stop 
"talking  for  Buncombe." 


XIV 

THE   EARLY   SETTLERS 

THE  history  of  Asheville  tells  in  part  the  story 
of  the  people,  and  in  part  answers  two  ques- 
tions always  asked  by  the  newcomer,  Who  are  the 
"Mountain  Whites,"  and  how  did  they  get  here? 
The  foot-hills,  as  we  know,  were  settled  early  in  the 
history  of  the  state,  and  there  was  a  sparse  popula- 
tion on  the  eastern  slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  long  be- 
fore any  one  ventured  to  establish  a  home  in  the 
mountains  that  lay  beyond  that  barrier,  the  first 
permanent  settlers  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge  not  ap- 
pearing until  after  the  Revolutionary  War,  in  the 
course  of  which  the  Indians  were  partly  subdued. 
As  time  passed,  the  restless  drifting  of  those  people 
who  came  to  the  New  World  in  search  of  homes 
brought  one  and  another  to  the  mountain  country, 
fabled  for  its  beauty,  healthfulness,  and  possibil- 
ities; and  while  some  of  these  wanderers  drifted 
away  again,  others  settled  down  and  raised  families 
who  clung  to  the  land  of  their  birth,  where  their 
descendants  are  yet  to  be  found. 

Since  North  Carolina  was  settled  from  "almost 
all  the  nations  of  Europe,"  one  looks  to  find  traces 
of  this  motley  assembly  among  the  present  inhabit- 
ants of  the  mountains;  and  there  are  traces  in  the 
names  and  the  features  of  the  people,  although  the 


THE   EARLY  SETTLERS  139 

population  in  course  of  time  became  Iiomogeneous 
for  several  reasons.  For  one  thing,  it  was  similar 
qualities  and  tastes  that  first  drew  the  people  to  the 
mountains  and  afterwards  kept  them  there;  also,  by- 
far  the  greater  number  of  these  emigrants  came  from 
the  British  Isles;  and  finally,  the  conditions  of  life 
in  the  mountains  was  such  as  still  further  to  leaven 
all  society  to  the  same  consistency. 

The  early  settlers  came  in  that  youth  of  the  nation 
when  land  was  free  and  hopes  were  high,  younger 
sons  sometimes,  and  business  men  of  small  property 
who  had  a  dream  of  possessing  a  landed  estate  and 
"founding  a  family"  in  the  New  World,  the  fabled 
western  mountains  powerfully  attracting  these 
seekers  for  fame  and  fortune,  most  of  whom  in  course 
of  time  were  doomed  to  discover  that  owning  a  tract 
of  land  was  not  the  only  requisite  to  success.  No- 
body got  rich  in  the  mountains,  excepting  the  for- 
tunate few  who  had  placed  themselves  in  the  line 
of  trafific  that,  in  course  of  time,  was  established  be- 
tween the  South  and  West;  the  poor  soil  was  an 
insuperable  obstacle,  as  were  the  social  conditions 
induced  by  slavery.  The  settlers  in  the  mountains 
did  not  realize  their  ambitions,  but  many  of  them 
found  a  home  and  peace  and  plenty,  according  to 
the  modest  standards  of  those  days. 

Besides  those  well-to-do  settlers  who  came  to 
found  a  family,  and  formed  the  "quality"  of  the 
mountains,  —  who  are  not  to  be  confounded  with 
the  "quality"  of  Charleston,  which  was  quite  an- 
other matter,  — .there  were  others  who,  for  various 


140       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

reasons  and  at  different  times,  drifted  in  from  the 
eastern  lowlands  as  well  as  down  from  the  North. 
Most  of  the  writers  tell  us  rather  loosely  that  the 
Southern  mountains  were  originally  peopled  with 
refugees  of  one  sort  and  another,  among  whom  were 
criminals  exported  to  the  New  World  from  England, 
which,  they  might  as  well  add,  was  the  case  with  the 
whole  of  the  newly  discovered  continent,  America 
being  the  open  door  of  refuge  for  the  world's  op- 
pressed. Hither  fled  dissenters  from  all  sorts  of  es- 
tablished form,  from  French  Hugenots  to  convicts, 
a  company  of  seekers  who,  for  the  most  part,  were 
to  fulfill  a  high  destiny  in  the  making  of  a  nation. 

The  popular  writers,  in  speaking  of  the  origin  of 
the  "Mountain  Whites,"  rather  insist  upon  the 
criminals,  perhaps  because  of  their  sensational 
value,  but  one  can  find  no  evidence  that  these  male- 
factors, many  of  them  "indentured  servants"  sent 
over  for  the  use  of  the  colonies,  made  a  practice  of 
coming  to  the  mountains  when  their  term  of  servi- 
tude expired.  And  knowing  the  manner  in  which 
many  of  these  white  slaves,  wretched  precursors  of 
the  black  slaves,  were  procured,  without  any  other 
fault  of  theirs  than  their  helplessness,  one  need  not 
tremble  with  fear  at  thought  of  them. 

The  truth  is,  the  same  people  who  occupied  Vir- 
ginia and  the  eastern  part  of  the  Carolinas  peopled 
the  western  mountains,  English  predominating,  and 
in  course  of  time  there  drifted  down  from  Virginia 
large  numbers  of  Scotch-Irish,  who,  after  the  events 
of  1730,  fled  in  such  numbers  to  the  New  World,  and 


THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  141 

good  Scotch  Highlanders,  who  came  after  1745.  In 
fact,  so  many  of  these  stanch  Northerners  came  to 
the  North  CaroHna  mountains  that  they  have  given 
the  dominant  note  to  the  character  of  the  moun- 
taineer, remembering  which  may  help  the  puzzled 
stranger  to  understand  the  peculiarities  of  the  peo- 
ple he  finds  here  to-day.  The  Celtic  element  has  also 
strongly  impressed  a  love  of  nature  upon  the  people, 
as  shown  in  their  care  of  flowers  and  their  pleasure 
in  the  beauties  of  the  wilderness.  They  can  tell  you 
where  to  go  for  the  finest  views,  and  they  know  any 
peculiarity  of  rock  or  tree  that  may  occur  in  their 
neighborhood. 

Emigration  to  the  mountains,  at  one  time  consid- 
erable, practically  ceased  when  the  great  West  was 
opened  up  and  the  people  flocked  thither,  no  longer 
drawn  to  the  less  exciting  region  of  the  Southern 
mountains.  The  more  enterprising  of  the  North  Caro- 
lina mountaineers  also  went  West,  we  are  told,  thus 
leaving  behind  the  conservative  element,  another 
fact  rich  in  explanation  of  the  people  here  to-day, 
and  leaving  also  the  less  ambitious  natures,  as  well 
as  the  weaker  ones.  The  easy  conditions  of  life  here 
doubtless  appealed  to  many  who  had  not  been 
endowed  with  the  kind  of  strength  required  to  wrest 
success  from  active  life  in  the  New  World,  some  of 
them  seekers  after  better  things  than  they  could 
hope  for  at  home,  gentle  souls  who  were  not  tempted 
by  the  glittering  prizes  to  be  struggled  for  in  more 
favored  parts  of  the  then  unexplored  continent.  The 
rapid  growth  of  slavery  no  doubt  discouraged  many, 


142       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

who,  unable  to  succeed  in  the  slave  states,  were 
crowded  to  the  mountains,  or  else  became  the  "  Poor- 
White"  of  the  South,  who  must  not  for  a  moment  be 
confounded  with  the  "Mountain  White,"  the  latter 
having  brought  some  of  the  best  blood  of  his  native 
land  to  those  blue  heights.  He  brought  into  the 
mountains,  and  there  nourished,  the  stern  virtues 
of  his  race,  including  the  strictest  honesty,  an  old- 
fashioned  self-respect,  and  an  old-fashioned  speech, 
all  of  which  he  yet  retains,  as  well  as  a  certain  pride, 
which  causes  him  to  flare  up  instantly  at  any  sus- 
picion of  being  treated  with  condescension,  this 
pride  being  one  of  the  most  baffling  things  to  the 
stranger,  who  never  knows  when  he  is  going  to  run 
up  against  it. 

That  the  people  are,  for  the  most  part,  of  English, 
Scotch,  and  Irish  descent,  their  names  show.  And 
what  good  names  some  of  them  are,  names  that  are 
crowned  with  honor  out  in  the  big  world,  —  Hampton, 
Rogers,  McClure,  Morgan,  Rhodes,  Foster,  Bradley, 
and  dozens  more;  and  to  those  fortunate  ones,  who 
out  in  the  big  world  have  gained  fame  and  fortune, 
these  Highlanders  are  undoubtedly  related.  The 
same  blood  flows  in  their  veins,  although  they  are 
here,  and  living  back  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

Why  have  they  remained  in  the  mountains  all 
these  generations?  The  answer  may  be  found,  partly, 
at  least,  in  the  fact  that  in  the  beginning  it  was  too 
easy  for  them  to  make  a  living,  that  is,  such  a  living 
as  contented  them.  Game  was  abundant,  and  their 
flocks  and  herds  supplied  their  own  wants  upon  the 


THE   EARLY  SETTLERS  143 

mountain  "ranges"  for  practically  eight  months  of 
the  year.  The  reason  for  their  remaining  after  the 
easy  conditions  of  pioneer  Hfe  had  passed  are,  first, 
because  those  who  remained  were  not  those  who 
came,  but  their  descendants,  born  and  raised  in  the 
wilderness,  inured  to  its  life  of  want  and  of  freedom, 
and  with  no  knowledge  of  any  different  life.  And 
then,  they  were  imprisoned  in  their  mountain  fast- 
nesses because  of  lack  of  means  of  communication, 
in  part  the  result  of  obstacles  presented  by  the  slave 
states  that  surrounded  them  like  an  unnavigable 
sea;  by  lack  of  communication  and  by  the  condi- 
tions of  life  in  the  lowlands  where  the  black  man  was 
king  as  well  as  slave.  As  time  went  on,  they  were 
forgotten  by  the  rest  of  the  woi'ld,  which  they  in 
turn  forgot. 

Excepting  in  a  few  places  where  people  came  a 
little  while  each  summer  for  pleasure,  and  where  the 
traffic  of  the  mountains  passed  out,  the  mountaineer 
had  no  contact  with  the  outside  world.  Even  the 
coming  of  the  summer  visitors,  who,  in  the  early 
days,  brought  their  own  servants  in  the  form  of 
slaves,  did  not  to  any  extent  influence  the  lives  of 
the  natives.  To  get  a  living  from  the  poor  soil  re- 
quired all  their  energies,  the  mild  climate  indispos- 
ing them  to  exertion  beyond  that  needed  to  supply 
the  merest  necessaries  of  life.  And  so  it  happened 
that  for  a  hundred  years  or  more  most  of  them  were 
completely  lost  to  the  world. 

Bad  blood  there  was  among  them  as  well  as  good, 
and  brave  men  as  well  as  weak  ones.    The  brave  as 


144       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

well  as  the  bad  blood  sometimes  worked  out  its 
destiny  in  vendetta  and  "moonshining,"  although 
there  never  existed  in  the  North  Carolina  mountains 
the  extensive  and  bloody  feuds  that  distinguish  the 
annals  of  Virginia  and  Kentucky. 

For  more  than  a  century,  then,  the  mountain 
people  lived  as  their  pioneer  forefathers  had  lived 
before  them,  retaining  their  language  and  their  old 
customs  modified  only  by  the  slow  growth  that 
comes  in  a  fixed  environment,  and  slowly  spreading 
over  the  whole  mountain  region  wherever  a  "cove  " 
or  a  valley  offered  hope  of  sustenance,  until  to-day, 
there  are  some  two  hundred  thousand  of  them  in  the 
North  Carolina  mountains  alone.  Little  villages 
grew  up  where  some  natural  advantage  drew  the 
people  together,  or  near  where  the  people  from  the 
lowlands  chose  to  come  for  their  summer  outings. 
So  w^hile  the  rest  of  the  world  was  advancing  in  a 
mad  rush  toward  some  unseen  goal,  the  Southern 
mountaineer  was  simply  living.  The  stranger  who 
occasionally  penetrated  into  his  wilderness  was 
amazed  at  the  simplicity  of  life  there,  as  well  as  at 
the  native  intelligence  and  shrewdness  of  a  people 
so  separated  from  all  contact  with  the  world  of 
action. 

When  a  new  tide  in  the  affairs  of  man  began  to 
bear  people  again  to  the  Southern  mountains,  this 
time  in  search  of  health,  retirement,  mines,  lumber, 
or  "business"  of  various  kinds,  the  mountaineer 
appeared  as  a  unique  and  puzzling  personality, 
more  or  less  difficult  to  cope  with.   Cautious,  suspi- 


THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  145 

cioiis  of  new-fangled  notions,  and  very  suspicious  of 
any  attempt  to  "improve"  him  or  his  community, 
belien'ing  that  what  was  good  enough  for  his  father 
was  good  enough  for  him,  he  stood  Hke  a  bulwark 
against  the  advance  of  new  ideas,  and  particularly 
against  the  intrusion  of  the  rich  and  "bigotty  "  new- 
comer, who  he  imagined  looked  down  on  him  and 
his  simple  ways.  Hospitable  to  a  fault  among  his 
own,  and  to  the  stranger  whom  he  trusted,  but  resort- 
ing at  need  to  more  than  questionable  methods  of 
freeing  himself  from  the  presence  of  an  obnoxious 
neighbor,  the  Southern  mountaineer  was  an  enigma 
to  the  well-meaning  but  impolitic  stranger,  who, 
seeking  to  make  for  himself  a  beautiful  home  in  the 
Southern  mountains,  was  perhaps  forced  to  leave 
the  country  before  the  exactions  and  the  implacable 
hostility  of  the  native  people.  If  you  are  friends  with 
the  people,  all  is  well,  but  if  you  are  a  mere  customer 
of  their  commodities  or  their  labor,  then  you  must 
match  not  only  your  wits  against  theirs,  but  your 
ignorance  against  their  knowledge  of  the  moun- 
tains, with  the  odds  seldom  in  your  favor. 

The  mountain  people  are  many  of  them  poor  and 
ignorant,  but  the  ill-clad  man,  who  to  the  city  vis- 
itor may  look  like  a  vagabond,  is  not  to  be  treated 
as  such;  he  knows  some  things  the  fine-appearing 
stranger  does  not  know,  and  is  well  aware  of  the  fact. 
The  mountaineer  is  very  old-fashioned,  so  old- 
fashioned  that  he  values  native  shrewdness  above 
what  he  calls  "book-larnin"';  so  old-fashioned  that 
he  thinks  his  neighbors  as  good  a.s  himself,  and  him- 


146       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

self  as  good  as  his  neighbors,  irrespective  of  who  has 
the  biggest  cornfield;  and  so  old-fashioned  that  he 
believes  progress  to  be  a  menace  against  his  personal 
freedom,  a  thing  to  be  combated  at  every  point.  His 
long-continued,  almost  communal  life  in  a  free  wil- 
derness, where  every  one  had  a  right  to  do  what  he 
pleased,  —  hunting,  fishing,  pasturing,  even  cutting 
down  trees  wherever  it  happened  to  suit  his  conven- 
ience, —  made  for  him  the  acceptance  of  other  ideas 
of  property  rights  peculiarly  dijffiicult.  He  gladly 
sold  his  land  to  the  newcomer  whose  slaughter  of  the 
forests  he  understood,  but  if  the  purchaser,  instead 
of  destroying,  tried  to  preserve  the  forest  land,  pro- 
hibiting burning-over,  pasturing,  and  common  use 
of  the  territory  —  then  there  was  trouble.  Also  the 
inalienable  right  to  hunt  and  fish  when  and  where 
he  pleased  was  a  part  of  the  faith  of  the  mountaineer, 
whose  long  sojourn  in  the  wilderness  had  ingrained 
in  him  primitive  ideas  which  the  gradual  filling-up 
of  the  country  did  not  change,  although  his  methods 
were  rapidly  exterminating  both  fish  and  game 
animals. 

But  while  the  new  pioneer  among  the  settled  na- 
tives of  the  Southern  mountains  had  his  troubles, 
the  native  himself,  although  it  may  not  have  been 
apparent  at  first,  was  changing.  He  learns  slowly, 
but  an  idea  once  established  grows  and  flourishes  with 
astonishing  vigor.  In  course  of  time  the  advantages 
of  modern  methods,  particularly  in  business,  dawn 
upon  him,  when,  sometimes  to  the  discomfiture  of 
his  unconscious  teachers,  he  takes  a  hand  and  proves 


THE  EARLY  SETTLERS  147 

himself  a  winner  in  the  new  game.  Indeed,  nothing 
concerning  these  people  is  more  interesting  or  more 
illuminating  than  the  quickness  and  success  with 
which  they  adopt  the  ways  of  the  world  when  once 
their  interest  is  aroused.  That  they  are  honest, 
intelligent,  and  efficient  workers  has  been  proved  by 
all  who  have  employed  them  with  discrimination, 
and  nowhere  better  than  in  the  development  of  the 
large  estate  of  Biltmore,  which,  the  first  enterprise 
of  great  importance  to  enter  the  mountains,  won  its 
way  to  success  by  help  of  the  people,  though  not 
without  many  and  unforeseen  difficulties,  principally 
in  connection  with  controlling  the  land  purchased. 


XV 

BILTMORE   AND   THE   NEW   ERA 

SOMEWHAT  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  before 
that  phenomenal  wave  of  prosperity,  which  is 
now  sweeping  over  the  South,  had  started,  and  while 
the  country  people  were  still  living  essentially  as 
they  lived  when  the  first  pioneers  came  to  the  moun- 
tains, there  appeared  among  them,  as  if  by  magic,  a 
perfect  illustration  of  the  advanced  cultivation  of 
the  outer  world. 

Unlike  the  transient  and  self-centred  community 
of  Flat  Rock,  that  fell  into  the  wilderness  like  a  jewel, 
and  made  about  as  much  impression,  Biltmore,  its 
antithesis,  expressing  the  new  era,  was  not  inorganic, 
but  living.  Its  roots  were  strong  and  full  of  sap. 
It  had  to  grow,  and  the  form  of  growth  it  took  played 
an  important  part  in  the  development  of  the  moun- 
tains, a  development  which  though  just  begun  is 
rapidly  changing  the  life  of  this  region. 

What  the  native  people,  after  living  a  life  of  stag- 
nation for  so  long,  most  needed  was  an  ideal  —  a 
point,  as  it  were,  at  which  to  aim,  and  a  knowledge 
of  how  to  work,  and  how  to  care  for  their  lands. 
These  Biltmore  gave  them.  It  showed  them,  not 
only  perfect  results  and  how  those  results  were  ob- 
tained, but,  what  was  of  paramount  importance,  it 
made  the  people  themselves  the  instruments  that 


BILTMORE  AND   THE   NEW   ERA      149 

produced  the  results.  The  thirty  miles  of  macad- 
amized road  traversing  the  estate,  and  the  hundreds 
of  miles  of  dirt  road  that  make  accessible  all  parts  of 
the  large  forest  connected  with  the  estate,  were  made 
by  the  mountain  people,  the  real  significance  of 
which  lies  in  the  fact  that  these  roads,  made  in  the 
country  where  the  people  themselves  live,  and  in 
which  the  grave  difficulties  of  road-making  have 
been  overcome  by  scientific  methods,  have  taught 
the  people  of  the  mountains  how  to  make  their 
roads,  as  well  as  something  of  the  advantages  of 
good  roads  and  the  necessity  of  caring  systematically 
for  them.  Then  there  was  the  stock  farm  where  do- 
mestic animals  were  cared  for,  and  where  were  learned 
the  advantages  of  modern  sanitary  methods  as  well 
as  of  high-bred  animals;  and  there  were  the  gardens 
where  new  methods  and  new  products  were  intro- 
duced to  the  workers ;  and  there  was  the  forest  where 
the  astonished  mountaineer  was  to  discover  that  a 
tree  is  as  well  worth  careful  raising  as  a  cabbage. 

It  was  the  scale  upon  which  the  work  was  done, 
more  even  than  the  nature  of  the  work  itself,  that 
gave  it  its  substantial  value;  for  each  year  young 
men  from  all  parts  of  the  mountains  were  employed 
at  Biltmore,  not  by  tens,  or  by  hundreds,  but  by 
thousands.  They  were  put  to  work  and,  what  was 
of  equal  value  in  their  development,  they  were  sub- 
jected to  an  almost  military  discipline.  For  the  first 
time  in  generations  they  were  compelled  to  be 
prompt,  methodical,  and  continuous  in  their  efforts. 
And  of  this  there  was  no  complaint.   Scotch  blood 


150        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

may  succumb  to  enervating  surroundings,  but  at 
the  first  call  to  battle  it  is  ready.  Not  only  did  the 
men  do  the  manual  labor,  but,  as  time  went  on,  the 
most  capable  of  them  became  overseers  in  the  vari- 
ous departments,  until  finally  all  the  directors  of  this 
great  estate,  excepting  a  few  of  the  highest  officials, 
were  drawn  from  the  ranks  of  the  people,  who  proved 
themselves  so  trustworthy  and  capable  that  in  all 
these  years  only  three  or  four  of  Biltmore's  moun- 
taineer employees  have  had  to  be  dismissed  for 
inefficiency  or  bad  conduct. 

Nor  was  the  dissemination  of  new  ideas  confined 
to  the  people  at  work  on  the  estate.  Milk  from  Bilt- 
more  appeared  at  Asheville  in  glass  bottles,  while 
Biltmore  butter  shot  a  golden  ray  into  the  lives  of 
discriminating  visitors  to  Asheville.  To-day  all  the 
milk  in  Asheville  is  delivered  to  the  better  class  of 
customers  in  glass  bottles,  and  the  country  dairies 
have  been  remodeled  to  meet  the  growing  demand 
for  cleanliness;  and  for  it  to  be  said  of  a  dairyman, 
"He  got  his  training  at  Biltmore  and  follows  Bilt- 
more methods,"  is  the  same  as  a  gold  medal  from 
the  last  World's  Congress.  When  such  novelties  as 
spinach  and  celery  appeared  in  the  Asheville  market, 
the  mountaineer  scorned  them  until  he  discovered 
that  people  really  did  buy  them,  when  he  began  to 
take  interest.  In  this  way  gradually  came  better 
varieties  of  all  the  vegetables,  until  the  Asheville 
market  was  transformed.  And  whether  Biltmore 
really  was  the  mother  of  every  new  good  thing  that 
came,  it  at  least  got  the  credit  for  being. 


BILTMORE   AND   THE   NEW   ERA      151 

Of  the  many  valuable  enterprises  of  Biltmore,  the 
most  important  to  the  mountain  people  has  doubtless 
been  the  preservation  and  administration  of  the  large 
tract  of  forest  land,  more  than  one  hundred  thous- 
and acres  in  extent,  connected  with  the  estate,  and, 
because  it  lies  partly  on  Pisgah  Mountain,  known  as 
"  Pisgah  Forest."  Not  only  were  the  virgin  forests 
of  this  tract  put  into  trained  hands  for  their  perpetu- 
ation and  improvement,  but  the  cut-over  lands  be- 
longing to  the  estate  were  reforested  and  cared  for 
according  to  the  best  science  of  the  day  on  the  sub- 
ject. The  woodland  was  not  only  preserved,  it  was 
utilized,  supplying  at  one  time  quantities  of  firewood 
to  Asheville,  and,  as  it  can  bear  it,  lumber  and  bark 
are  removed  for  other  uses.  The  forests  are  traversed 
by  roads,  —  thus  making  lumbering  easier,  more 
successful,  and  less  harmful  to  the  prosperity  of  the 
woods.  And  what  is  of  utmost  importance  to  the 
people,  the  trees  are  scientifically  preserved  by  moun- 
tain men  trained  for  the  purpose,  these  forest  rangers 
thus  learning  the  needs  and  uses  of  a  North  Carolina 
forest,  a  drill  whose  value  in  this  era  when  the 
North  Carolina  forests  have  suddenly  become  of 
vast  importance  and  great  value,  cannot  be  over- 
estimated in  bringing  the  mountaineer  not  only  to  a 
knowledge  of  forest  administration,  but  to  a  change 
of  mind  in  regard  to  the  treatment  of  his  own  wooded 
land.  The  North  Carolina  highland er  may  be  slow 
to  take  an  idea,  but  once  firml}^  lodged  in  his  mind, 
it  is  there  to  stay,  and  the  rapidity  with  which  he 
acts,  when  once  it  dawns  upon  him  that  a  given 


152       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

action  is  the  thing,  fairly  takes  one's  breath,  particu- 
larly the  breath  of  one  who  has  rested  in  his  midst 
before  enlightenment  had  disturbed  his  slumbrous 
existence.  And  what  an  influence  must  the  training 
of  thousands  of  young  men  in  practical  forestry  have 
in  educating  those  who  not  only  have  the  greater 
part  of  the  forest  land  in  their  keeping,  but  who  will 
soon  be  needed  to  administer  and  beautify  the  new 
national  park! 

It  was  at  Biltmore  that  the  "Good  Roads  Move- 
ment" was  started  which  has  made  such  wonderful 
progress  in  the  state  for  the  past  few  years.  Here  also 
was  born  the  idea  of  the  great  Southern  National 
Forest  which  has  just  become  a  reality,  and  here 
years  ago  for  their  education  came  some  of  those 
most  deeply  interested  in  the  preservation  of  our 
natural  forests,  because  Biltmore  was  at  that  time 
the  only  place  in  the  United  States  where  scientific 
forestry  was  practiced  on  a  scale  large  enough  to  be 
of  value  to  them. 

Pisgah  Forest,  besides  its  other  uses,  is  also  a 
game  preserve,  so  that  the  red  deer  once  more 
bounds  along  its  shady  aisles,  while  the  wild  turkey 
and  ruffed  grouse  grow  and  multiply,  and  flocks  of 
quails  fearlessly  trot  along  the  road  ahead  of  your 
horse.  What  added  grace  belongs  to  the  forest 
where  the  quails  are  not  afraid  of  us!  Not  that  the 
wild  denizens  of  Pisgah  are  wholly  undisturbed,  or 
so  one  infers  from  the  recent  phenomenal  increase  of 
game  in  the  Asheville  market  during  the  open  season, 
and  if  the  venison  enjoyed  by  visitors  to  Asheville 


BILTMORE  AND  THE  NEW  ERA      153 

does  not  always  come  out  of  the  remote  wilder- 
nesses of  the  Balsam  or  Smoky  Mountains,  that  is 
a  technicality  which  does  not  disturb  the  pleasure 
the  stranger  takes  in  the  delicacies  that  come  his 
way. 

Related,  in  subject  at  least,  to  the  forests  are  the 
nurseries  and  gardens  of  Biltmore  for  the  propaga- 
tion of  plants  suitable  to  the  region;  not  only  exotics 
but  all  those  charming  growths  of  the  mountains 
that  make  the  country  itself  so  engaging,  and  many 
of  which  are  equally  adapted  for  use  in  other  parts 
of  the  world,  quantities  being  shipped  to  the  North 
as  well  as  to  Europe;  for  the  gardens  and  nurseries 
of  Biltmore,  besides  supplying  materials  for  the 
estate  itself,  also  supply  large  numbers  of  plants  to 
the  outside  world.  These  gardens  and  nurseries,  as 
well  as  the  greenhouses,  are  now  almost  entirely 
under  the  care  of  mountain  men,  some  of  whom  have 
developed  remarkable  ability  in  working  with  plants. 
Besides  the  natural  forests  of  the  estate,  and  the 
nurseries  and  gardens,  with  their  many  choice 
exotics  and  native  growths,  a  living  book  for  the 
botanist,  there  is  a  botanical  library  which  contains 
besides  books  several  herbaria,  among  which  latter 
is  the  collection  of  Chapman,  author  of  the  "Flora 
of  the  Southern  United  States." 

The  first  question  asked  when  a  stranger  comes  to 
Asheville,  and  again  when  he  goes  back  home,  is, 
"Have  you  seen  Biltmore?"  —  and  if  he  has  not,  it 
is  his  own  fault,  for  the  extensive  grounds  of  the 
estate,  covering  some  ten  thousand  acres,  are  open 


154        THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

to  the  public  two  or  three  days  every  week.  Car- 
riages enter  from  the  village  of  Biltmore,  which 
was  so  named  by  Mr.  Vanderbilt  at  the  time  of  the 
purchase  of  the  estate. 

The  merely  curious  visitor  may  not  divine  the  real 
charm  of  the  place,  may  even  be  disappointed  at  the 
lack  of  display  there,  to  him  a  large  part  of  the 
carefully  planned  grounds  seeming  in  no  way  differ- 
ent from  the  rest  of  the  country,  excepting  the  roads, 
which  are  perfect.  But  let  the  nature-lover  or  the 
poet  in  any  other  form  enter  these  roads  winding 
through  the  apparently  untouched  forest,  and  he  will 
feel  something  that  he  does  not  feel  in  the  wilderness, 
something  that  moves  him  as  a  great  picture  moves 
a  sensitive  spirit,  and  for  the  same  reason.  Back  of 
the  painted  picture  throbs  the  universal  soul  of  man, 
and  in  the  work  of  the  great  landscape  artist  is  felt 
the  aspiration  of  the  human  heart.  For  these  grounds 
were  planned  and  to  an  extent  perfected  in  detail  by 
America's  greatest  landscape  gardener,  whose  work 
in  our  public  parks  is  a  source  of  national  pride. 

Just  why  his  surroundings  produce  so  pleasing  an 
effect  upon  him,  the  visitor  to  Biltmore  may  not 
know,  but  if  he  is  an  artist  he  will  know,  and  if  he  is 
somewhat  acquainted  with  plant  life  he  will  soon 
add,  to  the  general  impression  of  beauty,  another 
in  which  his  pleasure  is  increased  by  discovering, 
among  the  apparently  wild  and  untrained  growths 
along  the  roadside,  a  tree,  a  bush,  or  a  plant  that 
blends  with  the  rest,  enhancing  the  effect,  but  which 
is  not  a  native  of  the  mountains.    Perhaps  among 


BILTMORE  AND  THE   NEW  ERA     155 

these  aliens  he  may  note  a  very  rare  exotic,  but  it  is 
not  displayed.  Perhaps  not  one  in  a  hundred  will 
recognize  or  notice  it,  yet  its  presence  gives  the  per- 
fect touch  to  the  place  it  adorns,  and  even  without 
his  knowing  it,  gives  pleasure  to  the  sympathetic 
passer-by.  These  beautiful  exotics,  placed  in  the 
right  spot  to  strenghten  a  group  of  trees,  to  empha- 
size the  greens  of  a  mass  of  foliage,  or  to  add  a  sudden 
glow  of  color,  are  gems  that  reward  the  careful  eye 
of  the  botanist,  though  most  of  the  plant  life  that 
hedges  the  drives  of  Blltmore  is  the  wild  life  of  the 
forest  skillfully  persuaded  to  create  a  desired  Impres- 
sion, without  betraying  to  the  most  careful  observer 
that  its  perfections  are  not  wholly  due  to  the  benefi- 
cence of  nature.  Look  up  that  charming  little  valley 
—  why  does  it  bring  a  smile  and  a  memory  of  some- 
thing sweet  and  dim  and  poetic?  Nobody  seems  to 
have  touched  it,  and  yet  it  makes  one  feel  as  one 
never  feels  in  a  wild  mountain  gorge,  no  matter 
how  well  one  may  love  the  gorge.  The  bottom  of 
this  valley  is  smooth  and  green,  its  sides  as  they 
ascend  are  clothed  first  In  bushes  and  low-growing 
things,  then  with  trees,  the  largest  at  the  upper  edge. 
You  do  not  see  this  at  first,  perhaps  you  will  not  ana- 
lyze It  at  all,  seeing  only  a  lovely  valley  with  rocky, 
shrubby  walls  Irregularly  and  charmingly  clad  with 
nature's  wild  growths  that  seem  to  reach  up  into  the 
ver>^  sky  In  noble  sweep.  It  Is  so  sweet,  so  natural, 
so  sympathetic  a  part  of  the  landscape  that  you  can 
scarcely  believe  It  is  one  of  those  rude  ravines  that 
furrow  the  mountains,  and  which,  charming  as  they 


156        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

often  are,  yet  lack  the  perfection  of  this  apparently 
wild  glen. 

At  Biltmore  one  gets  Ideas  of  what  to  do  with  one's 
own  glorified  acre  of  wild  land,  to  make  it  yield  the 
highest  return  in  pleasure.  With  how  little  labor  and 
how  many  compensations  in  happiness  might  not  a 
thousand  small  places  be  converted  into  dreams 
of  beauty!  Nature  here  is  so  enchanting  when  left 
alone,  or  even  when  abused,  what  might  happen  if 
her  efforts  were  helped  by  loving  hands! 

With  the  passing  of  years,  the  untiring  industry 
and  devotion  lavished  on  Biltmore  have  produced 
the  result  seen  here  to-day,  a  result  that  money 
alone  could  not  have  produced.  And  with  the  pass- 
ing of  time  the  mountain  people  have  changed,  too. 
They  speak  with  a  new  note  of  appreciation  of  the 
estate  from  which  so  many  of  them  have  drawn  or 
still  draw  sustenance,  and  from  which  they  have 
received  so  abundantly  that  which  is  worth  infinitely 
more  to  them  than  the  week's  wages.  They  are  also 
beginning  to  understand  the  new  business  methods 
that  are  now  manifesting  themselves  in  so  many 
ways  in  different  parts  of  the  mountains,  and  for 
the  coming  of  which  Biltmore,  in  a  sense,  paved 
the  way. 

The  grounds  and  roads  of  Biltmore  are  an  object 
lesson,  not  only  to  the  natives,  but  to  every  stranger 
who  comes  to  these  mountains  to  make  himself  a 
home,  an  object  lesson  that  serves  to  show  what 
could  be  done  with  a  small  holding  as  well  as  with  a 
large  one,  and  with  almost  any  kind  of  problem  the 


BILTMORE  AND  THE  NEW   ERA      157 

mountains  offer,  so  varied  is  the  contour  of  this  large 
pleasure-ground. 

Biltmore  house  stands  three  miles  from  the 
entrance  gate,  on  one  of  those  high  open  places  from 
which  one  gets  that  sense  of  space  and  sky  that  has 
fastened  the  name,  "Land  of  the  Sky,"  so  firmly 
on  this  region.  It  is  a  large  and  stately  mansion,  sug- 
gesting a  French  chateau,  and  the  terrace  upon  which 
it  stands  is  supported  by  a  noble  stone  wall  that  re- 
minds one  of  the  impressive  rampart  at  Windsor 
Castle,  or  of  those  great  walls  that  guard  the  medi- 
aeval castles  on  the  hills  of  Italy;  though  this  is  no 
rampart  for  defense,  and  the  world  about  it  is 
neither  English  nor  Italian,  the  exquisite  mountains 
that  stretch  away,  range  above  range,  belonging 
distinctively  to  the  New  World.  And  the  house,  too, 
has  played  its  part  in  the  development  of  the  people. 
While  the  men  and  boys  were  learning  important 
lessons  out  of  doors,  the  young  girls  were  being 
trained  in  the  same  manner  indoors.  And  here,  too, 
the  scale  upon  which  the  training  was  given  has  con- 
stituted its  far-reaching  influence,  which  is  its  chief 
value,  hundreds  of  young  girls  owing  to  Biltmore 
their  first  preparation  for  the  new  life  which  is  so 
fast  coming  to  the  mountains. 

Besides,  there  is  the  "Biltmore  Industries,"  a 
school  for  girls  and  women  as  well  as  for  boys,  which 
has  also  opened  the  doors  of  the  new  era  to  many  a 
waiting  heart,  but  a  consideration  of  which  belongs 
to  another  place.  In  short,  Biltmore,  appearing 
upon  the  scene  when  the  industrial  development  of 


158       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  South  was  about  to  begin,  had  the  opportunity 
and  the  task,  in  many  ways  difficult,  of  giving  the 
people  their  first  training  in  the  ways  of  the  world. 
But  it  has  done  more  than  this.  Besides  disciplin- 
ing the  people  and  giving  them  an  object  lesson  in 
the  practical  development  of  the  natural  resources 
of  the  country,  it  has,  as  we  have  seen,  —  and  this 
will  seem  to  many  its  highest  value,  —  shown  how 
to  beautify  the  mountains  while  transforming  them. 

Of  course  Biltmore  is  not  the  only  influence  which 
has  been  at  work  transforming  the  life  and  work  of 
the  people.  Every  one  who  has  come  from  the  out- 
side world  to  live  in  the  mountains,  and  who  has 
employed,  or  taught,  or  come  in  any  kind  of  real  con- 
tact with  the  native  people,  has  had  a  share  in  their 
advancement.  There  are  many,  too,  who  have  lived 
and  worked  directly  for  them,  but  there  has  been  no 
other  single  influence  so  large,  so  varied,  and  so  far- 
reaching  as  Biltmore,  and  none  other  has  dealt  so 
practically  and  so  thoroughly  with  the  all-important 
subject  of  forestry. 

The  large  hotels  at  Toxaway  in  the  "Sapphire 
Country,"  with  a  holding  of  twenty-eight  thousand 
acres,  have  employed  the  mountain  people  in  clear- 
ing the  land,  building  the  dams,  and  otherwise 
preparing  for  the  lakes  that  were  made  by  flooding 
valleys.  They  have  also  made  roads,  but  on  a  com- 
paratively small  scale,  and  their  forest  is  held  as  a 
game  preserve,  where  deer  are  plenty,  but  where  no 
forestry  is  practiced  beyond  keeping  out  fires. 

It  is  the  presence  of  Biltmore,  the  Toxaway  hotels, 


BILTMORE  AND  THE  NEW  ERA      159 

and  the  many  people  of  culture  who  within  the  last 
twenty  years  have  come  to  the  mountains  to  make 
their  homes,  that  are  the  hope,  one  might  almost  say 
the  prophecy,  of  the  future.  For  as  a  consequence  of 
the  new  prosperity  of  the  South,  throngs  of  people 
arc  pouring  into  the  mountains.  The  bewildering 
rapidity  with  which  cotton-mills  have  sprung  up  all 
through  the  cotton  country  has  directly  and  indi- 
rectly put  money  into  the  pockets  of  thousands  of 
people  who  never  before  had  been  able  to  spend  a 
summer  at  the  mountains;  and  it  is  these  people 
who,  but  for  the  check  and  educating  power  of  other 
influences,  would  put  upon  the  new  development  of 
the  mountains  the  hopeless  stamp  of  mediocrity 
which  it  would  take  generations  to  efface.  The  old- 
time  picturesque  house  of  the  mountaineer  is  bound 
to  go.  It  cannot  be  modified  to  suit  the  demands  of 
modern  comfort.  The  ugly  structure  that,  among 
the  recently  prosperous  and  ignorant  classes,  is  so 
prone  to  succeed  it,  has  already  been  anticipated 
by  a  style  of  architecture  simple,  pleasing,  and  in 
harmony  with  the  scenery,  showing  every  one  that 
it  is  as  easy  to  build  an  attractive  house  as  an  ugly 
one. 

It  is  the  highest  type  of  progress  that  one  wishes 
to  see  at  work  in  the  mountains,  the  spirit  that  trans- 
forms by  enhancing  instead  of  diminishing  beauty, 
the  spirit  that  converts  steep,  rough,  and  dangerous 
roads  into  winding  highways,  and  that  banishes  the 
unnecessary  scourge  of  fever  that  each  summer  in- 
vades the  farthest  recesses  of  the  mountains.   And 


i6o       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

this  spirit  may  animate  not  only  the  man  of  millions 
who  comes  to  build  a  stately  pleasure-house  in  these 
enchanting  mountains,  or  place  a  group  of  palatial 
hotels  on  some  choice  eminence,  but  it  may  equally 
animate  every  one  who  owns  a  piece  of  land,  be  it 
ever  so  small. 

Nothing  can  stay  the  march  of  progress  that  has 
now  begun.  The  old  order  is  passing.  Let  the  new 
order  be  better  than  the  old.  If  the  charming  hoyden 
we  call  Picturesqueness  must  go,  let  her  nobler  sister 
Beauty  take  her  place.  And  whatever  may  be  the 
future  history  of  Biltmore,  if  the  mountains  con- 
tinue to  develop  in  the  direction  of  sanitation,  safety, 
and  ever-increasing  beauty,  the  honor  belongs  to  her 
of  having  been  the  guiding  star  in  the  difficult  pass- 
age from  the  old  order  to  the  new.  May  the  pro- 
phecy which  she  seems  to  hold  be  fulfilled  in  the 
new  era  which  appears,  to  those  looking  on,  to  be 
approaching  these  mountains  of  beauty  radiantly, 
like  the  rising  sun. 


XVI 

THE   PEOPLE 

TO  come  from  the  turmoil  of  city  life  to  these 
mountains  is  like  taking  a  journey  back  into 
the  history  of  the  past.  Notwithstanding  the  changes 
begun  by  the  recent  intrusion  of  the  outside  world,  life 
here  in  many  ways  is  yet  primitive.  One  breathes 
fresh  air  and  gets  down  to  elemental  things. 

"Stoves?"  said  an  old  man;  "I  ain't  never  owned 
a  stove  and  I  don't  never  aim  to.  I  don't  see  no  use 
in  stoves  noway.  I  would  n't  have  one  in  the  house. 
You  can't  bake  bread  in  a  stove.  I  don't  want  nar* 
thing  but  meal  and  water  mixed  together  and  baked 
in  the  fire.  I  don't  want  salt  in  the  bread.  I  was 
raised  on  that  bread  and  it  is  the  best  in  the  world." 
Imagine  a  condition  where  one's  physical  wants 
are  reduced  to  corn-meal  and  water! 

Because  the  people  are  so  obviously  untutored, 
the  chance  visitor  is  prone  to  imagine  the  whole 
mountain  a  favorable  missionary  field,  but  finds  it 
a  field  that  contains  many  disconcerting  surprises. 
A  favorite  grievance  of  the  average  good  Samaritan 
is  the  "ingratitude"  of  the  people.  They  take  what 
you  do  for  them  as  a  matter  of  course,  if  they  take  it 
at  all,  and  do  not  often  say  "  thank  you."  What  the 
donors  do  not  understand  is,  that  it  takes  a  good  deal 
of  social  training  to  enable  any  one  to  say  ' '  thank 


i62       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

you"  gracefully,  or  to  say  it  at  all.  "Why  do  you 
give  me  this?"  asked  a  woman,  turning  the  little 
trinket  over  in  her  hand  with  a  pleased  and  puzzled 
expression.  "Nobody  ever  made  me  a  present  be- 
fore. I  have  heard  of  presents,  but  I  never  had  one." 
How  could  any  one  with  such  a  narrow  range  of 
experience  ^^3^  "thank  you"? 

Frequently  well-meant  efforts  to  help  the  people 
are  proudly  resented. 

"Why  won't  you  wear  the  aprons  I  gave  you?" 
a  Northern  lady  asked  the  young  mountain  girl 
who  was  living  with  her,  and  with  whom  she  had 
tried  her  best  to  make  friends. 

The  girl  refused  to  answer  for  some  time,  then 
said :  — 

"Well,  if  you  really  want  to  know,  I  will  tell  you. 
I  can't  afford  to  buy  aprons  such  as  that." 

"  But  I  don't  want  you  to  buy  them ;  I  want  to  give 
them  to  you." 

"Well,  that's  just  it.  I  have  n't  got  anything  to 
give  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  take  where  I  can't 
give." 

Another  stranger  fed  a  mountain  woman,  who, 
having  come  to  town  to  "trade,"  stopped  at  the 
door  tired  and  hungry,  to  sell  her  butter.  Next  day 
the  woman  came  back  with  a  chicken. 

"Why,  no!"  said  the  lady,  "I  cannot  take  your 
chicken.   I  gave  you  the  dinner." 

"Say  you  did?" 

"Yes." 

"Say  you  gave  me  the  dinner?" 


GOING   HOME 


THE   PEOPLE  163 

"Yes." 

"Well,  if  you  can  give  me  a  dinner,  why  can't  I 
give  you  a  chicken?" 

The  unsanitary  condition  of  the  poorer  homes 
which  so  excites  the  genteel  visitor,  although  bad 
enough,  is  less  important  than  it  seems  to  those  ac- 
customed to  sewer-drained  cities;  for  natural  causes 
here  —  the  hot  sun,  the  free  winds,  the  wide  spaces, 
and  the  scattered  population  —  prevent  the  conse- 
quences that  follow  similar  habits  in  crowded  and 
shut-in  places.  The  people  are  fairly  healthy,  though, 
as  a  rule  with  exceptions,  not  long-lived,  and  while 
they  are  young  their  mode  of  life  is  not  felt  by  them 
as  a  hardship,  the  burden  of  it  falling  upon  the  sick 
and  aged. 

The  most  frequent  disorder  among  them  is  dys- 
pepsia, for  which  the  pale-green,  or  saffron-yellow, 
brown-spotted,  ring-streaked  and  speckled  luxury 
known  as  "soda  biscuits"  undoubtedly  bears  a 
heavy  burden  of  blame.  These  wonders  of  the  culi- 
nary art  are  freely  eaten  by  all  who  can  afford  to 
buy  white  flour,  and  their  odorous  presence  is  often 
discernible  from  afar  as  you  approach  a  house  at 
mealtime.  Typhoid  fever  is  another  frequent  vis- 
itant, though  the  "mountain  fever,"  as  it  is  here 
called,  appears  in  a  light  form  that  seldom  results 
fatally. 

When  looking  at  the  average  highlander  with  his 
bent  back,  his  narrow  shoulders  and  lean  frame,  one 
suspects  that  back  of  everything  the  people  are 
starving  —  not  so  much  physically  as  mentally  and 


i64       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

spiritually.  For  it  seems  to  be  just  as  necessary  to 
escape  from  primitive  life  as  it  is  necessary  to  go  back 
to  it  occasionally  for  rejuvenation.  The  unfed  mind 
reacts  upon  the  body.  The  pretty  girls  too  often 
become  old  women  at  the  age  of  thirty,  with  a 
"hurtin'  in  the  breast,"  that  no  doctor's  stuff  can 
assuage.  One  suspects  the  "  hurtin' "  of  being  really 
in  the  heart.  They  are  generally  grandmothers  at  an 
age  when  a  New  England  matron  is  still  discussing 
the  psychological  development  of  her  infants  at  the 
mothers'  club. 

The  slender  lads  with  their  gentle  manners  and 
friendly  eyes  become  bent  old  men  when  men  out 
in  the  world  are  in  the  prime  of  life.  The  forest  is 
filled  with  divine  fragrance.  The  mountains  are 
dreams  of  beauty,  but  the  man  who  looks  out  has 
no  future.  Often  he  cannot  even  read.  He  knows 
nothing  but  how  to  be  kind.  But  he  does  not  know 
that  anything  is  wanting.  He  laughs  and  takes  life 
as  he  finds  it,  thinking  his  lot  the  common  lot  of  man. 
Having  no  conception  of  a  world  dififerent  from  his 
own,  a  city  to  his  imagination  is  a  mountain  village 
with  a  few  more  houses.  A  native  of  the  Grandfather 
region,  proudly  showing  his  spring  of  cold  water  to 
a  Northern  visitor,  not  long  since,  said  politely,  "I 
reckon  you-all  have  got  good  springs  in  Boston,  too" ; 
but  his  tone  of  voice  indicated  clearly  enough  which 
land  he  believed  to  be  most  highly  blessed  in  its 
springs. 

The  mountain  home  is  generally  well  filled  with 
children,  and  the  grandmother,  who  is  about  the  age 


THE  PEOPLE  165 

her  daughter  looks  to  be,  is  vastly  proud  of  her  num- 
erous descendants,  though  she  sometimes  has  diffi- 
culty in  remembering  their  full  names,  or  even  their 
numbers,  and  one  of  them,  trying  to  count  up  her 
grandchildren,  once  said,  "It  seems  like  there  are 
fifteen,  but  I  will  have  to  study  jest  how  many." 

The  children  take  care  of  themselves,  and  where 
there  are  so  many  a  few  more  or  less  makes  no  differ- 
ence, hence  orphans  are  received  into  an  already 
overflowing  home  with  a  cordiality  that  might  put 
to  shame  the  exclusiveness  practiced  in  some  other, 
and  richer,  parts  of  the  world.  Also  illegitimate 
children  are  cared  for  with  an  affection  equal  to  that 
bestowed  upon  their  better  credentialed  brothers  and 
sisters.  When  a  young  girl  presents  her  parents  with 
an  unaccountable  grandchild,  the  neighbors  politely 
refer  to  it  as  an  accident.  The  number  of  those 
among  the  poorer  people  who  have  "met  up  with 
an  accident"  is  not  inconsiderable,  which  perhaps 
accounts  for  the  fact  that  so  little  importance  is 
attached  to  it.  The  girl  generally  marries  later, 
when  her  first-born  takes  his  or  her  place  in  the 
family  circle  on  the  same  footing  as  the  rest,  though, 
of  course,  among  the  better  class  of  people,  morality 
is  esteemed  the  same  here  as  elsewhere. 

The  children  share  the  responsibility  and  work 
of  the  home  from  the  start,  and  in  the  remoter  and 
poorer  districts  are  as  wild  as  rabbits.  Sometimes 
half-grown  children  are  unable  to  pronounce  their 
own  names  so  as  to  be  understood.  As  a  result 
names  have  actually  been  changed,  an  instance  of 


i66       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

which  is  the  Madcap  family.  You  naturally  Inquire 
into  the  behavior  of  a  family  with  such  a  name,  and 
failing  to  find  anything  to  justify  it  in  those  imme- 
diately under  observation,  you  go  back  a  generation, 
and  finally,  through  much  inquiry,  find  that  the 
name  was  undoubtedly  corrupted  from  Metcalf,  and 
that  Johnny  Madcap  is  not  a  wild  young  blade  nor 
in  any  way  to  blame  for  his  name.  But  it  must  not 
be  supposed  that  all  the  Metcalfs  have  been  thus 
metamorphosed;  only  those  poorer  owners  of  the 
name  who  have  gone  deep  into  the  wilderness,  and 
there  lost  themselves. 

The  little  children,  like  flowers  in  the  forest,  often 
have  the  prettiest  and  most  unusual  names.  Of 
course  there  are  John  and  Mary  and  Tom,  but 
there  are  also  Mossy  Bell,  Luna  Geneva,  Vallerie 
May,  Luranie  Carriebel,  Pearlamina  Alethy  Ivadee, 
and  a  thousand  others  like  them.  Oftentimes  the 
poorer  the  family  the  more  fanciful  the  children's 
names,  as  though,  this  being  the  only  inheritance, 
the  parents  wished  to  make  it  as  rich  as  possible. 
One  wonders  where  these  names  come  from  until  one 
discovers  that  certain  women  of  the  mountains,  gifted 
in  this  matter,  collect  the  pretty  names  they  hear, 
or  think  of,  or  read  in  the  story  papers  that  fall  into 
their  hands,  drawing  on  their  stock  in  behalf  of  their 
friends.  And  is  it  patriotism  or  poetry  that  invest  the 
female  members  of  one  family  with  the  charming 
names  of  Texas,  Missouri,  and  Indiana?  Sometimes 
a  child  will  have  half  a  dozen  of  these  ornamental 
names  bestowed  upon  him  —  or  more  generally  her, 


THE   PEOPLE  167 

as  the  greatest  play  of  fancy  is  exercised  in  the  selec- 
tion of  names  for  the  Httle  girls.  It  is  one  of  the 
pleasant  memories  of  the  mountains,  these  little 
human  flowers  with  poetical  names,  that  one  finds 
everywhere  in  the  woods. 

The  principal  recreation  of  the  country  people  is 
visiting.  They  go  long  distances  for  the  purpose,  and 
the  smallest  cabin  is  never  too  small  to  welcome  home 
the  married  sons  and  daughters  who  have  come  with 
their  families  to  stay  awhile  with  "Mammy"  and 
**  Pappy."  Nor  is  the  poorest  home  too  poor  to  wel- 
come with  open  arms  half  a  dozen  or  more  people 
appearing  quite  unannounced  from  some  distant 
region  to  stay  a  few  days.  The  only  pig  is  slaugh- 
tered, the  bean-pot  is  filled,  and  everybody  has  a 
delightful  time,  hosts  as  well  as  guests,  although  the 
days  of  "visiting"  may  consume  the  provisions  for 
half  the  winter. 

In  the  villages  there  are  the  ordinary  amusements 
of  young  people:  parties,  dancing,  picnics,  "box 
suppers,"  where  the  girls  fill  the  boxes  with  fried 
chicken,  bread,  and  cake,  and  the  boys  buy  them; 
and  of  course  there  is  music,  the  violin  and  guitar 
being  the  most  popular  instruments.  In  the  remoter 
districts  there  are  fewer  diversions.  "  Huskin's"  are 
common  everywhere,  and  in  some  sections  there  is 
a  form  of  entertainment  known  as ' '  candy-breaking, ' ' 
where  the  boys  buy  the  candy,  and  everybody  eats  it. 

The  country  music  is  oftenest  heard  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  when  the  day's  work  is  done  and  all 
sit  about  the  blazing  logs  of  the  big  fireplace.   How 


i68       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

pleasantly  comes  back  to  memory  one  such  scene! 
The  only  light  comes  from  the  fireplace,  and  dark 
shadows  steal  about  the  room  as  the  fire  flickers. 
In  the  glare  of  the  burning  logs  sits  a  youth  with  his 
violin,  rendering  with  zest  the  compositions  of  a  local 
celebrity,  —  "Sourwood  Mountain,"  "Cotton-eyed 
Joe,"  "The  Huckleberry  Bush,"  "The  Blue-eyed 
Girl,"  "Old  Uncle  Joe,"  "Aunt  Sally  Good'in,  A 
pot  full  of  pie,  And  an  oven  full  of  puddin'."  With 
what  enthusiasm  he  plays  them,  one  after  the  other ! 
And  as  he  plays,  coal-black  Jim  sits  in  front  of  him, 
knee  to  knee,  and  "beats  straws."  The  youth  can- 
not keep  time  without  this  unique  assistance,  which 
is  rendered  by  means  of  a  piece  of  broom-straw  held 
between  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  and  struck 
against  one  string  at  the  neck  of  the  violin,  while  the 
musician  plays.  Black  Jim  also  manages  to  beat 
time  with  his  feet  without  disturbing  the  rhythmical 
tang,  tang  of  the  straw,  or  distracting  the  player. 
"Beating  straws"  seems  to  be  confined  to  a  section 
on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  where,  how- 
ever, it  is  in  common  use.  After  the  violin  solo,  black 
Jim  dances  the  "stag  dance"  for  us,  first  retiring  to 
put  on  his  shoes,  for  though  he  says  he  can  dance 
better  without  them,  the  splinters  of  civilization 
have  to  be  considered,  a  dirt  floor  being  the  original 
and  proper  foundation  for  the  dance.  He  dances 
very  solemnly,  oppressed  no  doubt  by  the  presence 
of  strangers,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  fire  his  face  pres- 
ently shines  like  polished  ebony. 

Since  the  family  get  up  with  the  sun,  or  consider- 


THE   PEOPLE  169 

ably  before  that,  all  soon  go  to  rest  —  the  visitors 
in  the  parlor  where  stands  the  best  bed.  There  is  a 
carpet  on  the  floor,  and  a  round  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  holds  a  lamp  and,  as  ornaments,  a  dozen 
oyster  shells. 

One's  ablutions  are  supposed  to  be  performed  in  a 
tin  basin  standing  on  a  bench  on  the  porch,  the  fam- 
ily taking  turns,  but  when,  unused  to  the  customs 
of  the  country,  one  begs  for  some  water  in  one's  own 
room,  a  basinful  of  it  is  promptly  brought  in  and  set 
down  on  the  hearth.  In  the  morning  the  kind  host- 
ess appears  with  a  large  wooden  pail  of  water,  fresh 
and  icy  from  the  spring,  a  long-handled  gourd  dipper 
floating  on  its  sparkling  surface.  A  cold  bath  with  a 
vengeance ! 

The  women  have  one  consolation  which  the  stran- 
ger visiting  their  beautiful  mountains  conscientiously 
deplores,  forgetting  how  short  a  time  it  is  since  his 
own  ancestors  of  both  sexes  comforted  themselves 
with  snuff,  even  if  kings  and  queens  happened  to  be 
numbered  among  them.  In  the  pocket  of  many  a 
mountain  woman  and  pretty  young  girl  to-day  hides 
the  snuff-box.  It  is  not  a  silver  ornament  beautifully 
chased  or  set  with  jewels,  however,  but  the  little  tin 
box  in  which  the  snuff  is  bought.  Nor  is  snuff  taken 
after  the  manner  of  former  generations  of  snuff- 
takers.  Here  the  people  "dip,"  that  is  to  say,  a  stick 
chewed  into  a  brush  at  one  end  and  kept  for  the 
purpose  is  dipped  into  the  snuff  and  rubbed  over 
the  gums  and  teeth.  It  is  not  a  pretty  practice,  but 
it  seems  to  afford  peculiar  satisfaction,  enormous 


170       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

quantities  of  snuff  being  consumed  in  this  manner. 
When  a  mountain  woman  refers  to  her  "  toothbrush  " 
the  snuff-stick  is  what  she  means.  She  says  that  to 
dip  snuff  preserves  the  teeth  and  strengthens  the 
constitution.  A  young  girl  scarcely  grown  out  of 
childhood  gravely  told  how  thin  and  sickly  she  had 
been  until  her  father  brought  her  some  snuff  and 
ordered  her  to  use  it.  The  child  had  not  wanted  to 
take  it,  having  a  natural  repugnance  to  the  habit, 
but  her  father  insisted,  and  she  had  no  sooner  begun 
its  use,  so  she  said,  than  she  began  to  improve  until 
she  finally  became  strong  and  plump  like  the  rest  of 
the  girls! 

The  men  do  not  use  snuff  as  a  rule,  nor  do  many 
of  them  smoke,  though  they  sometimes  chew.  To- 
bacco is  not  raised  to  any  extent  in  the  mountains, 
and  the  snuff  habit  is  the  one  extravagance  of  the 
people,  who  back  in  the  mountains  are  not  ashamed 
of  it,  but  near  the  villages  they  are  getting  sensitive 
and  hide  the  snuff-stick  when  they  see  you  coming. 
The  first  step,  no  doubt,  in  the  passing  of  the  snuff- 
box. That  the  habit  is  not  a  polite  one  is  recognized 
even  out  in  the  country  where  you  are  informed  it  is 
the  "illest  manners"  to  dip  snuff  in  company.  In  the 
villages,  although  the  people  may  not  have  "all  the 
modern  improvements"  in  their  houses,  neither  do 
they,  to  the  same  extent,  use  the  snufT-stick,  nor  fol- 
low the  more  homely  manners  and  habits  of  the 
country  people,  although  they  closely  resemble  them 
in  one  respect  —  they  show  the  same  spirit  of  kindli- 
ness to  each  other  and  to  the  harmless  stranger. 


XVII 

THE   SPEECH  OF   THE   MOUNTAINS 

PERHAFS  the  first  thing  a  stranger  notices  upon 
meeting  the  people  is  their  quaint  speech,  for 
although  they  speak  "English,"  one  cannot  talk 
with  them  five  minutes  without  hearing  something 
new  and  strange,  their  language  besides  other  pecu- 
liarities containing  many  an  odd  phrase  and  word 
that  returns  us  to  the  language  of  Shakespeare's  day, 
or  even  to  that  of  the  "Canterbury  Tales."  Not 
that  these  people  have  remained  incarcerated  in  the 
mountains  from  Chaucer's  time,  but  they  came  across 
the  seas  a  century  and  a  half  or  more  ago  from  coun- 
try places  in  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  where 
the  old  words  were  yet  strongly  intrenched,  though 
nowhere  else  in  this  new  world  has  the  language  of 
the  past  survived  to  the  same  extent  as  in  the  South- 
ern mountains  and  the  adjoining  foothills. 

Since  the  mountain  people  were  as  a  rule  separ- 
at^'trom  contact  with  the  negro,  their  speech  dif- 
fers, therefore,  from  that  of  the  Southern  lowlanders, 
and  while  it  is  true  that  the  people  of  the  whole 
mountain  region,  as  well  as  those  of  the  foothills, 
have  many  idioms  in  common,  yet  the  dialect  of  the 
natives  of  the  North  Carolina  mountains  differs 
from  that  of  the  people  of  the  Virginia  and  Ken- 
tucky mountains,  and  other  sections  of  the  high- 


172        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

lands,  as  indeed  slight  variations  occur  even  in 
valleys  separated  by  rough  mountains,  or  among 
people  living  on  opposite  sides  of  the  same  moun- 
tain, so  little  communication  has  there  been  between 
those  thus  separated. 

Of  course,  like  all  who  live  in  the  backwoods,  the 
mountaineer  is  untrammeled  by  the  rules  of  the 
grammarian,  although  he  adheres  strictly  to  a  few 
rules  of  his  own,  and  to-day  his  is  the  most  purely 
"American"  of  any  language  in  the  United  States,  it 
having  grown  from  its  English  source,  untouched  by 
contact  with  a  motley  world. 

"Farwel,  for  I  ne  may  no  longer  dwelle,"  says 
Chaucer  in  the  "Knight's  Tale."  "He  don't  never 
say  farwell  if  he  can  holpen  it,"  says  the  North 
Carolina  mountaineer,  using  Chaucer's  double  nega- 
tive and  Chaucer's  "farwell"  and  "holpen"  in  the 
same  breath. 

That  "yonder"  is  in  common  use  you  know  when 
you  hear  a  baby  lisp  out,  "yonda  comes  a  cow," 
another  pointing  out  the  interesting  fact  that  "yon- 
da's  a  hen  with  a  gang  of  little  chickens,"  and  "yon" 
has  not  been  relegated  to  the  realm  of  poetry  where 
the  child  tells  you  that  his  cousin  lives  "yon  side  the 
mountain." 

In  some  places  the  people  still  go  to  the  "milking 
gap"  to  milk  the  cows.  "Least"  as  a  diminutive, 
and  "nary"  are  in  such  common  use  that  one  soon 
ceases  to  notice  them.  "I've  made  a  kiverlid  for 
each  of  my  daughters  but  the  least  one,  and  I  ain't 
made  her  nar',"  says  a  woman  you  know.    "I've 


THE  SPEECH  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     173 

suffered  three  years  in  that  house,"  another  who  is 
moving  her  household  goods  will  tell  you,  but  in 
your  sympathetic  inquiries  as  the  cause  of  her  misery 
you  learn  that  she  had  simply  been  waiting  there 
until  her  own  house  was  built.  "  Some  people  seem  to 
have  a  sleight  at  it  and  can  chop  good,"  says  a 
woman  discoursing  upon  the  subject  of  firewood, 
while  animals  "use"  certain  places  when  they  fre- 
quent them  or  live  in  them,  as  you  learn  when  told 
that  "there's  a  rat  using  in  that  hole,"  or  "a  bear 
uses  on  that  mountain." 

A  universal  anachronism  is  the  use  of  the  personal 
pronoun  "hit,"  instead  of  "it."  The  baby,  for  in- 
stance, is  "hit,"  from  one  end  of  the  mountains  to 
the  other.  Shall  one  ever  forget  the  dissertation  on 
infants  given  by  a  young  person  of  four  to  the  visitor 
who  suddenly  dropped  into  her  home  one  day!  She 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  swinging  her  legs,  her 
round  black  eyes  shining  with  excitement  as  she 
described  the  advent  of  her  baby  brother.  "  Hit  was 
the  b-1-ack-est,  me-an-est  lookin'  little  thing  you 
ever  see,  and,"  with  unutterable  scorn,  "hit  was  a 
boy!  And,"  with,  if  possible,  yet  deeper  disapproval, 
"hit  is  a  boy  yet!''  "Hit"  is  sometimes  used  until 
the  child  is  several  years  old,  particularly  if  there  is 
no  newcomer  to  usurp  the  title  and  "  Babe,"  applied 
as  a  temporary  provision  pending  the  finding  of  a 
suitable  name,  often  clings  to  the  youngest  son  for 
life. 

It  Is  not  necessary  to  go  Into  the  remoter  fastnesses 
of  the  mountains  to  hear  quaint  expressions.    The 


174       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

speech  of  a  people  is  the  last  thing  to  yield  to  new 
customs,  and  in  all  the  villages,  even  in  Asheville, 
one  constantly  hears  unfamiliar  and  interesting 
words  and  phrases.  If  you  do  not  know  what  is 
meant  when  a  mountaineer  selling  you  peaches  asks 
for  a  "poke"  to  put  them  in,  the  fault  is  in  the  times. 
Your  English  ancestors,  several  generations  back, 
would  have  known  and  at  once  produced  —  not  a 
"  paper  poke  "  in  those  days,  but  a  sack  of  some  sort. 

"Peart"  is  a  survivor  from  bygone  times  when  its 
use  was  perfectly  proper,  and  "  tolerable  "  in  the  form 
of  "tollable"  almost  usurps  the  place  of  "fairly"  or 
"rather"  as  an  adverb.  "She's  tollable  peart,"  you 
are  told  when  inquiring  after  the  health  of  an  absent 
member  of  the  family.  It  is  seldom  that  any  one  ad- 
mits to  being  "stout,"  "jest  tollable"  being  the  polite 
limit  of  health.  "Tollable  by  grace"  is  sometimes 
heard,  and  when  a  woman  tells  you  she  is  "poorly, 
thank  God,"  you  feel  that  piety  can  go  no  farther. 

"Ill,"  retains  the  old  meaning  that  survives  with 
us  only  in  the  proverb  of  the  ill  wind,  and  it  is  com- 
pared, some  snakes  being  iller  than  others  and  the 
king  snake  the  illest  of  all.  We  have  "moonshiny 
nights"  in  the  mountains  just  as  they  had  in  Eng- 
land in  Addison's  time,  and  as  they  doubtless  have 
in  the  country  there  to-day.  Relatives  are  "kin" 
here,  those  closely  related  being  "nigh  kin,"  "nigh" 
as  a  rule  everywhere  taking  the  place  of  "near"  or 
"nearly."  When  the  ground  is  slippery  It  is  "slick." 
A  calf  frisking  along  the  roadside  you  hear  referred 
to  as  an  "antic  calf."  "  It  is  big  enough  to  hold  quite 


THE  SPEECH  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     175 

a  content,"  one  is  told  of  a  parcel  concerning  which 
the  speaker  is  speculating.  **  Yes,  I  've  a  nice  chance 
of  flowers,"  a  woman  modestly  admits  when  you 
admire  her  little  garden.  Here  we  "aim"  to  do  a 
thing,  and  "claim"  that  we  have  done  it. 

When  you  hear  one  of  your  friends  spoken  of  by 
a  highlander  as  being  "common"  you  are  puzzled, 
to  say  the  least,  until  you  learn  that  the  word  is 
the  most  complimentary  possible,  retaining  its  orig- 
inal meaning  as  understood  when  we  speak  of 
the  "common  people,"  the  "common  good."  The 
"commoner,"  you  are,  that  is,  the  more  you  treat 
the  people  as  though  you  were  one  of  them,  the 
better  they  like  you.  And  to  be  called  "homely"  is 
also  a  fine  compliment,  in  a  land  where  the  expres- 
sion means  that  the  homely  one  makes  people  feel  at 
home,  takes  good  care  of  the  home,  is,  in  short,  what 
old-fashioned  people  of  the  outside  world  sometimes 
call  "a  home  body." 

Children  "favor"  their  parents,  though  a  peculiar 
form  of  the  word  appears  when  you  are  told  that  a 
certain  young  girl  is  "the  likliest  favored  person 
that  ever  came  down  from  the  North."  But  "favor" 
in  this  sense  is  often  replaced  by  the  modern  and 
more  graphic  "imitate";  to  be  told  that  a  child 
"imitates"  his  father  meaning  that  he  resembles 
him  in  appearance. 

"\\'e  laid  my  pappy  away  yesterday,  he  was  bed- 
fast six  weeks,"  a  young  girl  tells  you. 

One  often  hears  the  cow  or  mule  referred  to  as 
a  "beastie,"   though  the  cow  is  also  known  as  a 


176       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

"brute,"  and  sometimes  as  a  "cow-brute";  while  we 
are  told  of  a  certain  cat  that  it  was  "afraid  of  a  man- 
person."  Bread  that  does  not  rise  is  "sad,"  while  an 
old  or  ill-kept  horse  is  "  sorry."  "That 's  good  enough 
for  a  hireling,"  the  woman  says  of  the  coat  she  gives 
the  hired  boy.  And  one  frequently  hears  the  expres- 
sion, "  I  'm  no  hireling."  When  you  ask  a  man  who  is 
driving  a  stake  in  the  ground  what  he  is  doing,  he 
may  tell  you  that  he  is  "jest  pounding  in  a  stob," 
and  one  looking  for  a  boundary  line  was  heard  to  say, 
"There  ought  to  be  a  little  old  stob  somewhere  here." 
The  old  plural  form  of  words  ending  in  st  yet  sur- 
vives in  the  mountains,  where  the  people  speak  of 
the  "nestes"  of  the  hens,  the  "postes"  of  the  fence, 
the  "waistes"  of  the  dresses,  pronouncing  the  words 
in  two  syllables.  It  may  be  said  in  passing  that  the 
word  "waist"  is  generally  replaced  by  "body," 
while  the  skirt  of  the  dress  is  the  "tail"  —  and  one 
can  imagine  the  agitated  feelings  of  the  newly  ar- 
rived New  England  lady  to  whom  a  mountain  man 
came,  asking  if  she  could  not  sell  him  a  "body"  for 
his  wife,  as  she  already  had  a  "tail,"  and  wanted  to 
go  to  church.  But  this  is  a  diversion,  and  returning 
to  the  more  serious  subject  of  antiquated  speech  one 
finds  that  "done"  expressing  past  action,  as  a  sup- 
plement to  the  auxiliary  "have,"  is  universally  used. 
"He's  done  gone,"  "he's  done  hooked  up  the  horse 
[to  the  wagon] , "  "  he 's  done  filled  the  water-bucket, ' ' 
"she's  done  baked  the  bread";  one  hears  it  all  the 
time,  and  upon  occasion  one  is  informed,  of  a  com- 
pleted action,  that  "  he's  done  done  it." 


THE  SPEECH  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     177 

One  could  go  on  indefinitely  gathering  together 
old  W(jrds  and  phrases  that  bind  us  to  the  past.  But 
there  are  other  peculiarities  of  speech  equally  inter- 
esting which  have  been  acquired  and  crystallized  in 
the  speech  of  the  people  during  their  sojourn  in  the 
New  World,  and  one  is  delighted  to  meet  a  well- 
known  proverb  in  the  following  guise,  —  "You  kin 
carry  a  mule  to  the  branch,  but  you  can't  make  him 
drink."  "Branch"  means  any  stream  of  water 
smaller  than  a  river,  and  when  a  stream  or  a  road 
forks,  the  two  divisions  are  "prongs."  To  be  advised 
to  take  the  right-hand  prong  of  a  road  is  amusing 
at  firstjjjut  when  you  think  of  it,  it  is  at  least  con- 
sisteirt 

,/  /The  mountaineer's  rules  of  grammar  are  few  but 
Tigid.  Whatever  ends  in  s  is  plural,  hence  one  finds 
such  words  as  "molasses"  preceded  by  a  plural 
particle,  but  when  the  singular  is  used,  as  it  some- 
times is,  the  grammatical  plural  termination  is  dis- 
carded and  the  word  consistently  and  deliclously  be- 
comes "molass."  In  course  of  time  one  gets  used  to 
"them  molasses"  and  the  assertion  that  "they  make 
a  good  many  molasses" ;  as  one  also  does  to  the  word 
"several"  applied  to  quantity.  To  be  told  that  a 
man  has  raised,  or,  as  he  says,  made,  "several  pota- 
toes," soon  goes  without  notice,  though  it  always 
comes  with  a  pleasant  kind  of  shock  to  be  informed 
that  he  has  "made  several  molasses."  The  moun- 
taineer, it  may  be  said  in  passing,  sells  his  molasses 
by  the  bushel.  Since  a  noun  ending  in  the  sound  of  s 
is  naturally  regarded  as  plural,  we  have  "fuse,"  to 


178       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  people  a  new  word  introduced  with  blasting, 
suppHed  with  the  convenient  singular  "  f u . "  * '  Oxen ' ' 
is  singular,  and  the  plural  of  course  is  "oxes."  The 
men  still  wear  "galluses"  —  as  they  did  in  New 
England  a  generation  ago. 

The  efforts  of  the  people  to  comprehend  the  sub- 
tleties of  grammar  is  well  illustrated  by  one  of  them 
who,  anxious  to  speak  correctly,  asked  whether, 
when  a  piece  of  work  was  all  finished,  it  was  better 
to  say  it  was  "done  done"  or  "plumb  done";  and 
another,  in  an  effort  to  be  exact,  explained,  of  some- 
thing that  you  thought  ought  to  be,  "Oh,  it's  ben  a 
bein'  a  long  time." 

The  usual  illiterate  transformations  have  taken 
place  in  the  use  of  verbs,  adjectives,  and  adverbs. 
"Reckon  you'll  have  wood  enough  to  do  you  until 
to-morrow?"  the  boy  inquires.  "John,  did  you  give 
me  out?"  a  woman  asks  her  husband  whom  she  has 
kept  waiting.  People  here  do  not  "carry,"  they 
"tote";  and  they  "reckon"  instead  of  "think," 
though  when  they  think  hard,  they  "study."  In- 
stead of  saying  you  must  do  a  thing,  you  say  you 
are  "obliged"  to  do  it.  "I'm  obliged  to  go  home 
and  get  the  dinner,"  the  woman  with  whom  you 
have  been  talking  says  apologetically  as  she  leaves 
you.  That  the  "moon  fulls  to-night"  is  an  interest- 
ing fact,  for  soon,  that  is,  on  the  "  dark  of  the  moon," 
you  can  plant  your  corn. 

"Gwine"  in  some  places  takes  the  place  of  "go," 
and  you  freely  hear  such  expressions  as  "gwine  to 
gwine,"    "done    gwine,"    and    even    "done    done 


THE  SPEECH  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     179 

g\vine,"  although  this  is  not  common  in  the  higher 
mountains.  "Mighty,"  "powerful,"  and  "plumb" 
universally  take  the  place  of  "very."  When  you  find 
the  road  all  but  impassable,  you  may  be  informed 
that  the  recent  rains  "undermined  it  mightily." 
"  I  can't  hear  mighty  good,"  one  woman  says,  while 
another,  whose  little  chickens  you  are  admiring, 
informs  you  that  the  hawks  catch  them  "power- 
fully." Again  you  are  told  that  "you-all  will  have  a 
powerful  hunt  to  find  any  blackberries  now,"  while 
one  neighbor  says  of  another  that  he  is  "a  reg'lar 
wash-foot  Babdist,  the  powerfulest  you  ever  saw  in 
the  world."  "Now  the  truth's  the  truth,"  says  a 
woman  apologeticallyof  her  worn  calico  dress.  "This 
is  all  I've  got  but  what's  so  hot  it  plumb  swelters 
me  to  death." 

Without  the  various  forms  of  "mighty,"  "power- 
ful," and  "plumb,"  the  speech  of  the  mountaineer 
would  be  "powerful"  weak,  and  illy  could  be  spared 
the  convenient  "smart"  and  "right  smart"  that  so 
freely  adorns  his  remarks.  "He  holp  her  a  right 
smart,"  some  one  says,  joining  the  discarded  form  of 
yesterday  to  the  invention  of  to-day.  "Is  it  far?" 
you  ask.  "Yes,  a  right  smart,"  is  the  reply.  The 
variety  of  uses  to  which  "right  smart"  can  be  put  is 
both  bewildering  and  wonderful. 

"Trick"  is  also  of  general  application.  "That's  a 
right  smart  of  a  trick,"  a  mountain  woman  says  ad- 
miringly of  your  opera-glass.  "They  've  got  a  plumb 
cute  little  trick  over  yonder,"  a  woman  tells  you  of 
a  neighbor's  baby.    But  perhaps  the  best  thing  we 


i8o       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

ever  heard  about  a  mountain  baby,  or  any  other,  was 
told  us  by  a  woman  of  her  sister's  child,  —  "You 
never  did  see  a  prettier  big  baby  in  your  life  —  hit 's 
as  pleasant  as  the  flowers  are  made." 

"He  has  a  very  glib  team,"  we  are  told  of  one 
whose  horses  have  made  a  hard  journey  in  a  short 
time.  And  of  a  neighbor  suddenly  fallen  ill  one  is 
informed  as  the  cause  that  "he  has  taken  on  too 
many  apples."  "It's  not  doin'  much  good  noway," 
a  disappointed  farmer  says  of  his  corn  crop,  or  again 
you  will  be  informed  that  the  land  is  so  good  that 
two  or  three  acres  of  it  will  "eat  a  family,"  which 
does  not  mean  what  it  says. 

There  are  no  "stones"  in  the  mountains,  —  only 
' '  rocks. ' '  The  boys  ' '  rock ' '  each  other  when  they  get 
angry,  they  "rock"  the  cows,  and  we  found  a  little 
girl  "rocking"  a  hen  that  persisted  in  sitting  on 
some  round  "rocks."  "Air  ye  lookin'  fer  rocks, 
stranger?"  is  a  common  question  in  the  regions  of 
valuable  minerals.  Neither  are  there  "hives"  in  the 
mountains,  only  "bee-gums,"  which  the  bees  fill 
with  "right  smart  of  honey." 

Perhaps  the  most  immediately  noticeable  pecu- 
liarity of  speech  is  the  universal  use  of  "you-all"  in 
the  singular.  "How  are  you-all  to-day?"  by  no 
means  applies  to  the  health  of  the  family.  "  We-all " 
and  "they-all"  are  good  form,  though  not  so  often 
heard.  One  imagines  the  genesis  of  "you-all"  to 
have  been  in  those  early  days  when  people  lived  so 
far  apart  that  meeting  with  one  member  of  the 
family  necessitated  inquiring  concerning  the  health 


THE  SPEECH  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS     i8i 

and  welfare  of  all,  and  when  an  invitation  for  the 
same  reason  necessarily  included  every  member  of 
the  family. 

"Howdy"  is  the  usual  form  of  salutation,  and  the 
people  have  the  friendly  habit,  in  common  with  the 
rustic  communities  of  all  civilized  countries,  of  cour- 
teously greeting  the  stranger  they  may  meet.  You 
lust  make  your  bow  and  say  your  "howdy"  to 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  you  pass,  a  custom 
that  links  people  together  and  removes  the  instinct- 
ive fear  the  city-bred  traveler  has  of  meeting  a 
stranger  on  a  lonely  road.  Even  in  the  larger  villages 
the  stranger  receives  a  polite  bow  from  any  native 
citizen  whose  eye  he  meets. 

The  voices  of  the  people  are  low  and  pleasant, 
expressing  the  kindly  nature  of  the  speakers,  and 
also  one  imagines  the  friendly  quality  of  the  land- 
scape and  the  climate.  And  their  speech,  although 
quaint  and  archaic,  is  not  coarse  or  rude:  one 
never  hears  offensive  talk  or  low  epithets,  slang  is 
unknown,  and  profanity  in  most  parts  of  the  North 
Carolina  mountains  is  looked  upon  as  a  grave 
offense. 


XVIII 

'light  and  come  in 

THE  best  way  to  see  the  people  as  well  as  the 
mountains  is  to  walk.  This  one  can  do  because 
"a  mountaineer  never  meets  a  stranger,"  as  a  na- 
tive philosopher  explained,  adding,  "The  people 
round  here  give  the  kind  hand  to  everybody,  they 
have  n't  learned  better,  they  have  never  traveled"; 
but  one  desiring  to  explore  the  mountains  without 
either  walking  or  riding  can  gain  much  by  driving 
in  a  leisurely  manner  over  such  roads  as  are  passable. 
One  winds  slowly  along,  it  may  be  on  a  perfect 
summer  day,  the  radiant  Southern  sky  seen  between 
overhanging  branches,  with  now  and  then  an  open- 
ing in  the  forest  through  which  the  mountains  show 
intensely  blue,  or  like  pale  wraiths  in  the  distance. 
Along  the  way  cold  springs  come  gushing  out  like 
joyous  living  things  from  under  the  roots  of  a  tree  or 
under  a  fern-draped  bank  —  the  waters  purified  by 
how  many  miles  of  groping  through  intricate  dark 
passages  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  springs  not 
always  visible  from  the  road,  but  whose  presence 
the  knowing  eye  detects  by  the  hard-beaten  path 
winding  down  from  the  roadside.  Crossing  the  cool, 
swift  streams  your  horse  stops  knee-deep  to  drink, 
or  to  make  believe  drink,  in  order  to  stand  there 
awhile. 


'LIGHT  AND   COME   IN  183 

The  road  winds  along,  now  hidden  among  trees, 
now  emerging  to  ascend  some  open  height  where 
mountains  come  to  view,  near,  green,  and  dark- 
shadowed,  or  distant,  azure,  and  dreamHke;  again  it 
makes  its  way  around  the  end  of  a  damp  ravine 
where  a  stream  jumps  down  in  bright  cascades,  and 
the  banks  are  smothered  under  ferns,  leucothoe, 
and  laurel.  Through  the  vistas  that  open,  pleasant 
pictures  come  and  go  —  a  farmhouse  in  a  hollow,  a 
log  cabin  surrounded  by  cornfields  ripening  into 
gold,  the  invincible,  sunny  forest  pressing  down  upon 
it  on  all  sides.  And  then,  turning  a  curve  in  the  road, 
directly  before  you  stands  an  old  house  shaded  by 
ancient  oaks,  a  spinning-wheel  on  the  porch,  —  or, 
if  you  happen  to  be  in  the  right  valley,  a  hand-loom 
may  be  there. 

This  house  that  you  approach,  wherever  it  may 
be,  seems  to  be  expecting  you,  at  least  you  have  a 
friendly  sense  of  knowing  it,  although  you  have 
never  seen  it  before.  As  you  draw  near  in  the  sweet 
summer  stillness  a  friendly  dog  comes  wagging  to 
meet  you,  and  some  one,  man  or  woman,  comes  out 
and  hails  you,  "Howdy,  'light  and  come  in."  This 
is  the  universal  salutation.  Or  if  you  are  walking, 
as  you  come  within  earshot  you  are  greeted  with  a 
pleasant  and  expectant,  "Howdy,  stranger,  come  in 
and  rest  yourself."  Often,  the  moment  you  come 
in  sight  a  chair  is  set  ready  on  the  porch,  and  the 
family  assemble  and  seat  themselves  in  expectation 
of  your  arrival.  They  greet  you  with  a  warmth  that 
makes  you  feel  as  though  you  had  known  them 


i84       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

always,  and  they  insist  upon  your  spending  the  day 
with  them.  Truth  to  tell,  one  enjoys  a  sense  of 
very  genuine  welcome  where  the  eyes  of  the  hostess 
look  into  those  of  the  unexpected  guest,  undimmed 
by  a  thought  of  what  she  is  to  have  for  dinner.  It  is 
no  doubt  the  extreme  simplicity  of  the  food,  and  the 
fact  that  everybody,  rich  and  poor  alike,  have  the 
same,  that  give  the  people  their  gracious  gift  of  hos- 
pitality and  their  feeling  of  equality.  The  knowledge 
that  everybody  serves  the  same  dinner  in  the  same 
way  must  go  far  towards  leveling  social  distinctions. 

As  you  go  about  the  mountains,  you  will  come  to 
many  an  old-time  log  house,  the  pictorial  survivor 
of  an  age  when  the  log  house  was  the  only  house 
built.  Those  of  better  class,  made  of  hewn  logs  and 
built  by  the  "quality"  of  former  generations,  are 
large  and  substantial  with  a  stone  chimney  at  either 
end,  from  the  depths  of  whose  vast  fireplaces  one 
can  still  in  imagination  smell  the  banquets  prepared 
in  the  "ovens"  that  stood  in  the  ashes,  and  in  the 
pots  that  hung  suspended  from  the  wrought-iron 
cranes. 

Oftener  than  the  large  log  house,  you  come  upon 
the  smaller  one  of  only  two  or  three  rooms,  or  the 
cabin  of  but  a  single  room,  yet  each  and  every  one 
has  its  big  stone  chimney,  and  most  of  them  have 
the  porch  wreathed  in  vines,  while  one  yet  sees  roofs 
covered  with  hand-made  shingles.  The  outside 
chimney  standing  against  one  end  of  the  house  gives 
the  finishing  touch  to  the  appearance  of  the  log  cabin, 
but  its  picturesqueness  is  its  chief  virtue.  The  flames 


'LIGHT  AND   COME   IN  185 

that  go  roaring  up  it  in  such  splendid  spendthrift 
fashion  may  warm  the  imagination,  but  they  produce 
comparatively  little  effect  upon  the  temperature  of 
the  room,  and  in  these  undegenerate  days  the  open 
fireplace  is  often  flanked  by  a  modern  cooking-stove 
that,  however  useful,  is  not  at  all  ornamental. 

The  interior  of  a  cabin,  needless  to  say,  is  as  simple 
and  oftentimes  as  picturesque  as  the  outside.  The 
great  fireplace  with  its  generous  flames  is  the  centre 
of  attraction,  and  one  may  believe  has  something  to 
do  with  the  genial  nature  of  the  people  reared  about 
it.  A  large  open  fire  expands  the  heart  of  man.  The 
iron  crane  from  which  swing  the  pots,  the  circular 
"ovens"  standing  in  the  ashes,  the  red  heart  of  the 
fire,  the  human  forms  played  over  by  the  flickering 
light,  awaken  strange  emotions  of  a  shadowy  mem- 
ory from  out  some  past  existence.  Next  in  import- 
ance to  the  fireplace  are  the  beds,  several  of  which 
often  stand  in  one  room,  and  even  in  the  larger 
houses  it  is  customary  to  find  at  least  one  bed  in  the 
parlor. 

Oftentimes  a  bench  along  the  wall  supplies  seats 
at  one  side  of  the  narrow  table,  and  sometimes  there 
is  a  bench  on  both  sides,  chairs  being  few,  straight- 
backed,  and  narrow,  for  the  furniture  is  generally 
home-made.  Somewhere  in  a  remote  cove  you  will 
come  across  the  man  who  makes  the  chairs,  but  who 
is  always  too  busy  doing  something  else  to  fill  an 
order  in  less  than  a  year.  But  what  does  that  matter? 
In  course  of  time  and  somehow  the  people  get  their 
chairs,  strong,  honest  things  made  with  special  refer- 


i86       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

ence  to  bearing  a  man's  weight  when  tilted  against 
the  wall  on  their  back  legs  —  this  being  the  moun- 
taineer's favorite  attitude  of  repose.  The  seats, 
made  of  plaited  oak  splints  or  strips  of  deer-hide, 
last  almost  as  long  as  the  hardy  frames. 

In  another  cove  you  will  find  the  man  or  woman 
who  weaves  the  picturesque  melon-shaped  "hip" 
baskets  by  means  of  which  the  people  "tote"  their 
possessions  from  place  to  place,  either  walking  or 
riding  horseback,  the  horse  quite  as  often  as  not 
being  a  lop-eared  mule.  These  weavers  are  often- 
times quite  skillful  In  their  art,  being  able,  so  they 
claim,  to  weave  any  kind  of  basket  you  can  show 
them. 

Brooms  are  made  by  anybody  and  everybody. 
The  tall  picturesque  broom-corn  that  ornaments 
the  landscape,  however,  is  raised  to  sell,  the  univer- 
sal sweeping  Instrument  of  the  mountains  being 
made  from  the  "broom-straw,"  or  wild  sedge  that 
so  beautifully  takes  possession  of  every  "old  field" 
not  yet  grown  up  to  bushes.  All  you  need  to  do  Is  to 
gather  a  bundle  of  the  ripe  sedge  and  "  wrop,"  that  Is, 
bind,  It  about  the  end  of  a  stick  with  a  piece  of  wire 
if  you  have  It,  otherwise  with  a  piece  of  string.  But 
for  brushing  the  hearth  it  is  better  to  have  your 
broom  made  from  a  bundle  of  tree  twigs  similarly 
"wropped"  around  the  end  of  a  stick. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  a  life  where  the  people 
themselves  make  what  they  need.  It  returns  us  In 
imagination  to  an  age  of  peace  and  plenty  for  every- 
body, to  an  era  of  happiness  free  from  hurry,  worry, 


'LIGHT   AND   COME   IN  187 

and  sordid  ideals,  and  if  the  reality  falls  short  of  the 
poet's  fancy,  there  yet  clings  a  touch  of  romance 
about  the  home-made  chairs,  baskets,  and  pottery  of 
the  Southern  mountains.  When  can  one  forget  the 
long,  sweet  days  of  wandering  about  the  country  in 
search  of  the  "jug-makers"!  —  "jugs"  being  the 
generic  title  of  every  form  of  home-made  pottery. 
It  was  while  in  Traumfest  that  one  was  fired  with 
ambition  to  discover  the  makers  of  the  rude  but  pic- 
turesque jugs  in  such  general  use  there.  The  people 
tell  you  they  are  made  in  Jugtown,  down  in  South 
Carolina,  but  when  you  go  out  to  find  Jugtown,  there 
is  no  such  place.  At  Gowansville,  below  the  moun- 
tains and  some  ten  miles  from  Traumfest,  one  makes 
a  serious  effort  to  find  —  not  Jugtown,  that  quest 
has  long  since  been  abandoned,  but  the  nearest  jug- 
maker.  The  people  do  not  seem  to  know,  but  finally 
a  black  girl  whom  we  stop  on  the  road  tells  us  that 
Rich  Williams,  "A  cullud  man  who  lives  three  quar- 
ters away,  yon  side  the  Tiger  River,"  makes  them. 

On  we  go,  and  in  the  end  find  Rich  —  this  side  the 
Tiger.  Yes,  he  makes  jugs,  and  he  is  at  it.  You  get 
out  of  him  that  a  great  many  people  in  that  region 
make  jugs,  and  you  conclude  that  "Jugtown"  is  a 
jocular  expression  for  the  whole  region  of  pottery 
clay,  but  having  found  Rich  Williams,  you  bear  no 
resentment. 

He  is  an  old-time  negro,  as  black  as  ebony,  evi- 
dently very  proud  of  your  visit,  and  you  are  soon 
watching  the  bony,  black  hands  knead  the  clay  and 
pat  it  into  a  loaf,  then  on  the  wheel  coax  it  into 


i88        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

shape.  The  veins  stand  out  like  cords  on  Rich's 
sinewy  arms,  his  long  hands  draw  the  jflat  clay  loaf 
up,  up,  into  the  stately  two-gallon  jug  with  its  nar- 
row mouth,  or  into  the  wide-mouthed  butter  crock, 
or  the  pug-nosed  pitcher,  big  or  little.  Rich  loves 
his  work.  He  says  he  can  make  anything  he  wants 
to  out  of  clay.  Looking  at  him,  you  seem  to  see 
before  you  the  original  potter.  His  wheel,  which 
looks  as  though  he  had  made  it  himself,  is  in  a  little 
log  hut,  lighted  by  one  tiny  window.  His  outfit 
consists  of  the  wheel,  a  tall  stool,  his  clay,  and  a 
stick  or  two.  He  digs  the  clay  from  the  bank  of  the 
Tiger  River  that  runs  near,  —  slate-colored,  adhe- 
sive clay  that  Rich  says  is  "powerful  good"  for  jug- 
making.  He  grinds  it  in  a  wooden  box  by  the  help  of 
a  slow-footed  mule  that  w^alks  in  a  circle  at  the  end 
of  a  long  curved  beam  which  turns  an  upright  shaft 
fitted  with  wooden  teeth  at  its  lower  end.  Rich  has  a 
jug  of  water  at  his  elbow,  one  of  his  own  make,  and 
there  he  sits  all  day,  and  every  day,  busy  with  his 
clay. 

You  watch  tall  jugs  rise  as  by  magic  under  his 
hands,  and  when  they  are  done  he  lifts  them  off  the 
wheel,  and  on  every  jug  are  slight  indentations  caused 
by  the  pressure  of  his  hands  as  he  lifts  them.  There 
are  queer  hollows  in  them,  sometimes,  and  lopsided- 
nesses,  for  Rich  is  not  always  in  the  best  mood,  and, 
while  on  some  days  jugs  fly  easily  from  under  his 
hands,  there  are  other  days  when  they  are  contrary. 
Rich  tells  you  that  his  glaze  is  made  from  ashes  and 
clay,  that  he  washes  the  jugs  inside  and  outside  with 


'LIGHT   AND   COME   IN  189 

it,  and  then  sets  them  in  the  oven.  His  oven,  out  of 
doors  near  the  shed  in  which  he  works,  is  a  long, 
low  vault  of  bricks  and  clay,  with  a  fire-hole  at  one 
end  and  an  opening  at  the  other.  He  sets  in  his  jugs, 
makes  up  a  wood  fire,  and  bakes  them  until, they  are 
done. 

It  seems  as  though  one  could  learn  to  tell,  from 
looking  at  a  jug,  what  manner  of  man  made  it  — 
and  whether  he  was  black  or  white.  Black  men's 
jugs  are  like  them,  some  way,  careless,  generous, 
picturesque.  Rich's  jugs  are  homely,  but  one  likes 
them,  they  are  so  honest.  A  jug  made  by  a  potter 
who  dug  the  clay  out  of  the  bank  with  his  own  hands, 
and  soaked  it,  and  ground  it,  and  shaped  it,  and 
glazed  it,  and  baked  it,  must  be  a  wholesome  sort  of 
jug  to  have  in  any  house.  We  had  formed  the  habit 
of  setting  groups  of  Rich's  jugs  in  the  fireplace, 
partly  to  heat  the  water,  and  partly  for  the  pictur- 
esque effect,  long  before  we  knew  of  the  ebony  hands 
that  moulded  them  out  of  the  gray  clay  of  the  Tiger 
River. 

The  place  of  the  jug  would  seem  to  be  firmly 
established  in  the  mountains.  Yet  in  these  later  days 
its  existence  is  threatened.  The  tin  lard  pail  has  risen 
above  the  horizon.  Everybody  buys  lard,  and  the 
"buckets"  become  family  treasures.  Even  into  the 
remotest  regions  the  insidious  foe  has  crept,  until 
one  finds  the  unlovely  lard  pail  occupying  the  place 
where,  a  few  years  ago,  only  the  decorative  brown 
earthenware  jug  would  have  stood. 


XIX 

PENELOPE  AND   NAUSICAA 

THE  mountain  woman  has  her  duties  and  her 
privileges.  She  loves,  honors,  and  obeys,  In- 
nocent of  any  knowledge  of  the  suffrage  movement. 
She  can  work  out  of  doors,  wearing  a  long  skirt.  She 
does  much  of  the  work  elsewhere  relegated  to  man, 
but  is  always  deferential  to  her  husband,  whom  she 
respectfully  refers  to  as  "him,"  as  though  that  were 
his  baptismal  name. 

In  the  mountain  cabin  "housework"  has  no  ter- 
rors, an  hour  a  day  is  enough  for  everything.  "  Bric- 
^-brac"  has  not  been  discovered,  and  there  are  no 
"things"  to  accumulate.  Yet  the  people  are  not 
without  ideas  of  decoration,  in  some  places  stray 
newspapers  being  eagerly  seized  upon,  not  for  the 
valuable  information  they  contain,  —  the  people 
manage  to  get  on  very  happily  without  that,  —  but 
for  the  purpose  of  papering  the  walls.  Particularly 
upon  the  side  occupied  by  the  chimney  these  pub- 
lications are  put  to  a  use  believed  by  many  to  be 
ornamental.  In  some  parts  of  this  land  of  leisure,  to 
have  one's  walls  papered  by  "illustrated  editions" 
is  as  much  a  mark  of  distinction  as  In  another  part 
of  the  world  it  Is  to  have  them  hung  with  master- 
pieces of  painting.  Besides,  they  keep  the  room 
warm,  so  the  people  say.    At  times  this  might  be 


PENELOPE  AND   NAUSICAA  191 

figuratively,  if  not  literally,  true!  As  soon,  however, 
as  harvest- time  comes,  the  atrocious  effect  is  softened 
by  the  multiple  strings  of  beans,  of  sliced  pumpkin, 
and  sliced  apples  that  festoon  the  walls  about  the 
fireplace  and  shrivel  decoratively  in  front  of  it,  itTer^ 
cifuUy  concealing  and  staining  and  otherwise  har- 
monizing the  luridities  of  the  daily  press.  Papering 
the  walls  in  this  way  is  an  exasperating  boon  to  the 
storm-bound  stranger  who,  unaccustomed  to  long 
reverie  in  a  public  place,  turns  for  pastime  to  the 
papered  wall.  You  follow  a  thrilling  narrative 
through  several  columns,  interested  in  spite  of  your- 
self, then  at  the  most  exciting  point  it  stops  short. 
You  have  reached  the  end  of  a  page  that  cannot  be 
turned. 

You  will  often  see  the  mountain  woman  in  her 
big  sunbonnet  in  the  fields  hoeing,  or  helping  "lay 
by  the  craps,"  occupations  which,  if  not  pursued  too 
arduously,  and  they  seldom  are,  do  her  no  harm.  On 
the  contrary,  such  work  is  good  for  her,  although  it 
so  often  excites  the  indignation  of  strangers,  to  whom 
the  sight  of  a  woman  working  in  a  field  always 
seems  to  bring  visions  of  terrible  oppression  and 
cruelty.  Most  of  the  mountain  women  would  prefer 
their  light  field  work  to  the  far  more  arduous  duties 
of  their  well-dressed  critics.  The  woman  milks  the 
cow,  —  she  does  not  like  to  trust  so  important  and 
delicate  a  task  to  a  mere  man,  —  and  she  sits  in  the 
doorway  or  near  the  fire  and  chums  the  butter  in  a 
tall,  slender  earthenware  or  wooden  churn.  And 
when  she  is  done,  she  has  plenty  of  time  to  rest. 


192       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

When  berries  are  ripe,  she  and  the  children  have 
an  ever-ready  occupation.  Particularly  in  huckle- 
berry season  you  will  see  little  "gangs"  of  sunbon- 
neted  women  and  children,  with  stained  and  happy 
faces,  and  stained  hands  and  clothes,  plodding  along 
the  dusty  road  carrying  hea\'y  pails  of  shining  blue- 
black  berries.  And  sometimes  whole  families  go  to 
the  "huckleberry  balds"  on  the  mountains,  where 
they  stay  several  days,  sleeping  in  their  tented 
wagons.  It  is  only  in  recent  years  that  the  people 
have  taken  to  canning  their  berries,  sugar  being  a 
luxury  in  the  mountains.  But  lately  there  has  come 
a  substitute  for  sugar  which  is  vaguely  referred  to  as 
"powders,"  and  what  these  mysterious  powders  are 
we  discovered  one  day  when  into  a  country  store  in 
the  mountains,  where  we  had  gone  in  search  of  some- 
thing to  eat,  came  a  little  troop  of  women  each  with 
her  tin  pail  full  of  berries  and  each  demanding 
"powders"  according  to  her  needs.  The  clerk  cast  a 
critical  eye  over  each  pail  of  berries,  then  ladled  out 
from  a  bottle  a  quantity  of  white  powder  sufficient 
in  his  estimation  to  cover  the  case.  When  the  women 
had  gone  we  asked  him  what  the  powder  was.  He 
said  he  did  n't  know,  and  rather  reluctantly  handed 
us  the  bottle,  on  which  was  the  label  printed  in  black 
letters  —  Salicylic  Acid.  It  does  not  take  much  of 
this  to  preserv-e  a  jar  of  berries,  though  one  should 
think  that  as  a  substitute  for  sugar  it  might  be  a 
little  disappointing.  However,  any  berries  are  better 
than  none  when  winter  comes,  and  there  is  no  other 
fruit,  excepting  apples  and  peaches,  which  are  dried 


PENELOPE  AND   NAUSICAA         193 

in  strings  before  the  fire  or  simply  spread  out  on  one 
end  of  the  porch  floor,  and  the  appearance  of  which 
makes  one's  mind  turn  with  lessened  repugnance  to 
the  thought  of  berries  preserved  in  powders. 

But  the  most  cherished  occupation  of  the  moun- 
tain woman  for  generations  was,  and  to  a  very  lim- 
ited extent  still  is,  weaving,  an  occupation  exclu- 
sively her  own  and  which  in  a  peculiar  way  relates 
her  to  a  by-gone  world.  Traveling  along  the  road, 
you  glance  through  an  open  doorway  to  see  a  woman 
"sitting  in  a  loom,"  a  large,  clumsy,  home-made 
loom  in  which  she  is  weaving  cloth.  One  always 
experiences  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  sight  of  a  loom  here 
in  the  mountains.  Some  memory  of  Penelope  and 
Evangeline  seems  to  linger  about  it.  But  the  weavers 
of  to-day  are  neither  great  ladies  nor  fair  young  girls. 
The  girls  of  the  mountains  prefer  machine-made 
cloth  to  the  home  product  and  the  labor  of  weaving 
it.  "I  can't  learn  her  noway,"  the  mother  says  of 
her  daughter  who  takes  no  interest  in  the  ancestral 
loom. 

In  the  corner  near  the  loom  stands  the  spinning- 
wheel,  not  as  a  mere  parlor  ornament  with  a  ribbon 
around  its  neck,  but  in  readiness  to  spin  a  thread. 
Sometimes  loom  and  spinning-w^heel  stand  upon  the 
porch,  where  they  lend  a  peculiar  air  of  domesticity 
to  the  landscape.  As  a  rule,  however,  they  are  inside 
the  house,  for  weaving  is  the  woman's  winter  work, 
or  one  might  say  her  recreation,  for  like  the  woman  of 
antiquity  she  loves  to  spin  and  weave.  And  she  is 
proud  of  the  result.  Even  the  coarse  "jeans  "  for  her 


194       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

men's  clothing  and  the  "Hnsey  cloth"  for  her  own 
are  regarded  by  her  with  affectionate  pride,  for  has 
she  not  created  them  out  of  nothing,  you  might 
say?  To  convert  a  long  thread  into  a  piece  of  stout 
cloth  might  well  make  any  heart  thrill  with  pride. 
Besides  this,  she  weaves  towels  and  blankets  and, 
most  prized  of  all,  coverlets  of  elaborate  design  for 
the  beds. 

"We  used  to  have  great  gangs  of  sheep,"  the 
people  say,  "  but  now  we  have  to  buy  all  our  wool, 
and  it  don't  pay  to  weave  noway."  "  I  'd  rather  card 
and  spin  and  weave  than  anything  in  my  life,"  the 
older  women  who  did  this  work  in  their  youth  tell 
you.  It  was  the  stock  laws  that  drove  away  the 
sheep,  for  they  had  to  be  inclosed  and  this  made 
raising  them  unprofitable  —  so  the  people  explain, 
but  one  suspects  it  is  really  the  cheap  machine-made 
cloth,  to  be  had  at  every  country  store,  that  has 
conquered  the  loom. 

There  are  not  many  looms  within  easy  reach  of 
the  larger  places,  prosperity  and  contact  with  the 
outside  world,  be  it  ever  so  slight,  soon  retiring  the 
loom.  Yet  there  are  a  few  looms  even  there,  and  in 
the  remoter  regions,  far  from  railways  and  summer 
visitors,  they  are  still  in  common  use.  With  what 
pleasure  one  recalls  certain  high  valleys  where  under 
the  shadow  of  blue  domes  and  green  slopes  one  finds 
in  every  second  house  a  great  loom  taking  up  half 
the  room !  And  those  quaint  log  cabins  whose  beds 
are  spread  with  blue  and  white  coverlets  such  as  are 
cherished  in  old  New  England  farmhouses! 


PENELOPE 


PENELOPE  AND   NAUSICAA  195 

One  penetrating  into  a  certain  "cove"  of  the 
mountains  finds  Mrs.  Hint  Tomson,  still  a  "power- 
ful weaver."  Near  her  lives  old  Mrs.  Robbins,  who 
used  to  do  "a  heap  of  mighty  good  weaving  work," 
too,  but  she  is  now  blind  in  one  eye,  though  she  can 
still  "design"  sunlight  with  it,  and  she  is  ninety 
years  old,  so  she  says,  and  "plumb  broke  down."  If 
she  is  right  about  her  age,  one  can  well  believe  the 
rest  of  the  statement.  There  are  other  weavers  liv- 
ing in  the  same  neighborhood,  some  of  whom  yet 
"weave  a  power,"  and  all  of  them  will  bring  out  from 
chests  or  shelves  and  display  with  pride  the  old 
coverlets  made  by  dead  and  gone  grandmothers  or 
great-grandmothers,  as  well  as  by  less  industrious 
present-day  weavers. 

With  what  pride  they  display  their  favorite  pat- 
terns !  They  know  nothing  about  the  latest  novel  or 
the  opera  or  scandal  in  high  life,  perhaps  they  could 
not  even  tell  you  who  is  President  of  the  United 
States  at  the  present  moment,  but  they  are  ready  to 
give  their  opinion  upon  the  relative  merits  of  the 
"rattlesnake  trail,"  "the  wheels  of  time,"  "the 
rising  and  setting  sun,"  "  Bonaparte's  March,"  "  the 
snail's  trail,"  and  other  old  and  prized  designs. 

And  as  they  show  their  treasures  and  talk,  they 
tell  you  many  a  homely  secret  connected  with  the 
art  of  weaving. 

"If  you  want  to  make  a  man  jeans  that  he  can't 
hardly  wear  out,"  one  woman  confides  to  your  sym- 
pathetic ear,  although  you  have  no  great  expectation 
of  needing  the  advice,  "you  dye  the  chain  light  tan 


196       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

with  black  walnut,  then  take  the  first  shearing  of 
lambs  and  weave  it  in  white,  then  dye  the  cloth  with 
walnut.  The  lamb's  wool  fulls  up,  it  shrinks  more 
than  any  other  and  makes  a  cloth  he  can't  hardly 
wear  out.  You've  got  him  harnessed  up  then  to 
stay." 

The  "chain"  or  "harness,"  that  is  to  say,  the  warp 
of  these  coverlets  is  made  of  cotton  thread,  usually 
white,  and  the  "filling"  of  woolen  yarn,  generally 
blue,  though  it  is  sometimes  red  or  green,  or  pink  or 
black.  Mrs.  Levi  Ward's  "wheels  of  time"  are 
black  and  white. 

Besides  the  coverlets  themselves,  Penelope  takes 
pride  in  showing  her  "drafts,"  the  patterns  from 
which  the  designs  are  made,  and  which  have  been 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  dating 
back  to  those  days  when  the  women  vied  with  one 
another  in  inventing  original  designs,  designs  which 
were  handed  down  with  the  loom  —  a  true  "heir- 
loom" as  one  perceives.  To  this  day  each  pattern 
keeps  its  name,  and  that  of  one,  the  "Missouri 
trouble,"  brings  one  suddenly  close  to  a  page  of  his- 
tory, when  the  women  were  patiently  weaving 
through  the  formative  periods  of  a  nation,  tingling 
with  the  charged  condition  of  the  atmosphere,  and 
through  their  looms  giving  expression  to  the  emotions 
thus  powerfully  aroused.  Those  days  are  gone  now. 
Lethargy  has  stolen  over  the  souls  of  the  people  and 
no  new  designs  are  being  made,  only  some  of  the  old 
ones  are  copied,  and  that  with  lessening  frequency. 
The  coverlets  made  to-day  are  not  so  beautiful  as 


PENELOPE  AND   NAUSICAA         197 

those  made  before  the  use  of  chemical  dyes.  Then 
the  people  raised  their  own  indigo  and  went  out  into 
the  woods  for  walnut  bark  and  certain  herbs  whose 
dyes  defied  both  time  and  the  washtub,  only  getting 
a  little  mellower  as  they  grew  older.  Some  of  the 
prettiest  of  these  old  coverlets  have  a  dark  green 
pattern  woven  into  a  black  warp,  and  one  occa- 
sionally sees  an  old-rose  counterpane,  which  is  pret- 
tiest of  all. 

Even  in  the  remoter  districts  it  is  only  the  older 
women  who  weave,  and  in  another  generation  hand- 
weaving  will  have  become  a  lost  art,  so  far  as  the 
people  at  large  are  concerned.  Schools  to  encourage 
weaving  have  been  established  here  and  there  in  the 
mountains,  it  is  true,  but  philanthropic  efforts  of  that 
kind  cannot  save  a  people  from  the  onward  march 
of  progress.  The  work  done  in  these  schools  is  not 
sold  to  the  people  themselves,  —  they  cannot  afford 
to  buy  it,  —  but  to  summer  visitors  or  it  is  sent  to 
distant  cities  as  a  luxury  to  the  rich.  It  serves  a  good 
purpose  in  providing  remunerative  w^ork  to  a  small 
number  of  the  mountain  women,  but  as  to  reviving 
to  any  extent  the  good  old  customs  among  the  people 
themselves,  —  the  hand  cannot  be  put  back  on  the 
dial.  Besides  the  immediate  help  they  afford,  these 
schools  have  doubtless  another  mission:  by  gather- 
ing up  and  recording  the  old  patterns,  and  with  them 
more  or  less  of  the  old  customs  of  the  people,  they  are 
preserving  valuable  material  for  future  historians 
and  story-tellers. 

In  addition  to  the  art  of  weaving,  the  mountain 


198        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

women  have  another  picturesque  occupation  which  is 
in  no  immediate  danger  of  passing,  and  which,  were 
it  not  for  Homer,  one  might  hesitate  to  enlarge  upon. 
But  after  the  glamour  cast  over  Nausicaa  beating 
out  the  family  wash  in  the  crystal  waters  of  the 
Phaeacian  River,  one  ventures  to  present  a  woman 
of  the  Southern  mountains  standing  under  a  laurel 
tree,  her  well-used  wooden  tubs  ranged  on  a  bench 
before  her.  On  the  ground  at  her  side  bright  flames 
leap  up  abou  t  the  large  black  pot,  hung  to  a  pole  above 
or  standing  in  the  ashes.  A  cloud  of  white  steam 
from  the  pot,  a  little  curl  of  faint  blue  smoke  from 
the  fire,  the  deep-blue  sky  showing  through  the 
leaves  of  the  forest,  the  murmur  of  running  water 
from  the  stream  close  at  hand  —  these  are  the  rest 
of  the  apology,  if  any  is  needed,  for  presenting  the 
subject  in  detail. 

Whereas  Nausicaa  trod  out  the  stains  from  her 
clothes  with  snow-white  feet,  the  woman  of  the 
mountains  lifts  her  clothes  from  the  boiling  pot  on 
the  end  of  a  long  stick,  lays  them  on  a  stump  leveled 
for  the  purpose,  and  soundly  beats  them  with  a 
paddle.  There  are  no  shining  sands  on  which  to 
spread  them,  so  she  spreads  them  on  the  shining 
bushes,  and  when  they  are  dry  loads  them,  not  into 
a  chariot  drawn  by  firm-hoofed  mules,  but  into  a 
basket  made  of  oak  splints  which  she  sometimes 
carries  home  on  her  head. 

The  washing-place  down  by  the  branch  is  always 
picturesque,  and  so  is  the  woman  at  her  labors  sur- 
rounded by  the  beauty  of  nature  that,  as  it  were, 


OVER    THE    TUBS 


PENELOPE  AND   NAUSICAA         199 

embraces  her.  Even  more  picturesque  than  the 
white  woman  at  her  task  is  perhaps  the  black  woman 
whom  one  often  sees  in  the  lower  mountains  stand- 
ing under  a  great  laurel  bush  or  a  shady  tree,  dipp- 
ing the  clothes  from  her  steaming  black  pot,  then 
valiantly  paddling  them  on  a  tree  stump.  There  is 
something  so  leisurely  and  yet  so  hearty  about  these 
black  people  —  and  they  satisfy  your  love  for  the 
picturesque  without  exciting  any  feeling  of  pity. 
When  you  look  into  their  great  shining  eyes  you 
know  that  when  all  is  said  they  love  to  wash.  And 
they  have  never  any  feeling  of  shame  about  it. 
Though  for  that  matter  neither  have  the  mountain 
women  of  the  white  race  w^hen  you  get  far  enough 
from  the  villages,  where  the  ferment  of  civilization 
has  crept  in,  the  ferment  whose  first  action  is  always 
to  make  people  ashamed  to  be  seen  working. 

In  accordance  with  the  customs  of  the  country,  the 
women  do  their  washing  as  they  do  everything  else, 
in  the  manner  most  convenient  for  the  moment. 
They  have  no  roof  to  shelter  them  in  winter,  but  the 
year  round  wash  "down  at  the  branch"  in  the  open 
air.  Often  the  tub  stands  on  the  ground,  the  woman 
leaning  over  it  in  a  way  to  make  one's  back  ache  in 
sympathy.    But  as  usual  your  sympathy  is  wasted. 

"Why  does  n't  your  husband  make  you  a  bench?" 
you  cry  in  indignation,  and  she,  rising  up  smiling 
from  the  suds,  replies  —  "I  like  it  better  this  way, 
a  body  don't  have  to  lift  up  the  water,  nor  lift  down 
the  tub  to  empty  it." 

Washboards  of  course  are  as  unknown  as  darning- 


200       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

needles.  Why  waste  money  on  a  washboard  when  all 
your  ancestors  paddled  their  clothes  on  the  end  of 
a  stump?  But  sometimes  the  woman  has  no  tub, 
and  that  really  is  serious.  Once,  over  towards  the 
lovely  Nantahala  Mountains,  we  came  upon  a 
woman  washing  in  a  wooden  box.  She  was  young 
and  a  baby  sat  on  the  ground  at  her  side.  The  blue 
mountains  were  a  heavenly  vision  behind  her,  a 
clump  of  brilliant  wild  flowers  rose  above  her  head. 
But  her  eyelids  were  swollen,  she  had  evidently  been 
weeping,  and  the  tiny  cabin  higher  up  the  hill  was 
very  bare  inside.  Was  there  a  "still"  down  in  the 
ravine?  Had  her  young  husband  been  carried  away 
by  the  "  revenuers  "  ?  Or  had  he  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
seductions  of  his  own  industry?  Our  hearts  were 
troubled,  but  we  could  do  nothing.  She  turned  her 
head  aside  and  would  not  look  at  us;  so,  respecting 
her  sorrow,  we  passed  in  silence,  flooding  her  with 
warm  good  will  and  heartfelt  hopes  that  life  would 
soon  grow  brighter. 


XX 

A   VANISHING   ROMANCE 

TO  the  outside  world  the  most  interesting  char- 
acter in  the  mountains  is  the  moonshiner, 
who  appears  to  the  imagination  as  the  Robin  Hood 
of  the  Southern  greenwood,  sallying  forth  from  his 
illicit  "still,"  hidden  in  some  cavern  in  the  moun- 
tains, to  pursue  the  relentless  vendetta  and  contrib- 
ute "spirits"  to  a  grateful  community. 

Who  is  this  romantic  figure?  When  and  how  did 
he  come  upon  the  scene?  Unfortunately  for  romance, 
he  is  not  a  survival  of  some  ancient  age  and  custom, 
but  on  the  contrary,  a  product  of  conditions  result- 
ing from  the  Civil  War.  ' '  Before  the  war ' '  the  moun- 
taineer converted  his  grain  into  whiskey  just  as  the 
New  Englander  converted  his  apples  into  cider. 
The  act  of  distilling  in  itself  was  not  a  crime,  and 
became  so  only  because  it  was  an  evasion  of  the  reve- 
nue laws.  In  these  late  years  the  wave  of  prohibi- 
tion passing  over  the  South  has  further  complicated 
the  act  and  made  it  reprehensible  in  the  eyes  of  most 
people.  But  we  have  only  to  contemplate  the  im- 
mense quantity  of  distilling  in  Kentucky,  Illinois, 
and  other  great  places  of  production  to  see  that  it  is 
not  a  question  of  morals  but  simply  of  money.  In 
the  mountains,  where  it  is  stigmatized  not  as  illegal 


202       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

but  as  "illicit,"  a  nice  distinction,  it  is  not  a  question 
of  morals  but  of  rights. 

Formerly,  when  no  odium  was  attached  to  it,  the 
distillation  of  whiskey  was  universal  and  respect- 
able, according  to  the  customs  of  the  time,  and,  in 
spite  of  the  supply  of  whiskey  kept  in  every  house, 
the  people  were  not  intemperate.  Even  to-day,  the 
word  "whiskey"  has  no  such  sinister  meaning  in  the 
mountains  as  it  has  acquired  in  the  outer  world, 
where  its  use  has  been  so  long  abused  in  the  cities, 
although  its  distillation,  because  of  its  secrecy,  its 
hidden  ways,  its  "illicit"  character,  has  made  it  the 
most  destructive  to  character  of  any  one  pursuit. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War  for  the  sake  of 
revenue  a  very  heavy  tax  was  placed  upon  all  dis- 
tilled alcoholic  liquors.  After  the  war  was  over,  the 
tax  was  not  removed,  and  this  is  the  grievance  of 
the  mountaineer,  who  says  the  tax  should  have  been 
removed,  that  it  is  unjust  and  oppressive,  and  he 
has  a  right  to  do  as  he  pleases  with  his  own  corn, 
and  to  evade  a  law  that  interferes  with  his  personal 
freedom.  We  read  in  the  stories  of  English  life  much 
about  the  rigkt  of  smuggling,  the  practice  of  smug- 
gling being  not  only  right  but  heroic,  and  it  was 
doubtless  In  accordance  with  this  sentiment,  which 
may  have  been  strengthened  by  his  desire  to  taste 
the  forbidden  fruit,  that  the  mountaineer  continued 
as  of  old  to  make  his  own  whiskey,  omitting  the 
costly  formula  of  obtaining  a  government  license  and 
thereafter  subjecting  himself  to  government  super- 
vision.   At  first,  because  of  his  remoteness,  he  was 


A   VANISHING   ROMANCE  203 

not  much  hampered  by  the  enforcement  of  the,  to 
him,  obnoxious  law.  As  the  country  became  more 
thickly  settled,  the  struggle  for  existence  harder,  and 
the  officers  of  the  law  more  vigilant,  whiskey-mak- 
ing became  a  special  rather  than  a  general  occupa- 
tion, and  was  carried  on  by  the  boldest  and  most 
executive  spirits  of  the  region,  who  called  their  illicit 
product  "blockade,"  thus  attaching  to  themselves 
something  of  the  respectability  and  even  the  hero- 
ism of  a  man  running  a  blockade  against  an  enemy 
in  a  just  cause.  Hence  some  of  the  most  valuable 
men  in  the  mountains  have  been  moonshiners,  as 
well,  of  course,  as  some  of  the  least  valuable.  To-day 
the  moonshiner  is  losing  caste  even  among  his  own 
people,,  and  the  younger  generation  of  mountaineers 
finds  its  way  out  into  the  world  when  in  need  of 
employment  for  its  energies. 

The  people  tell  us  that,  in  days  gone  by,  the  whis- 
key made  in  the  mountains  was  pure,  but  since  the 
more  complete  enforcement  of  the  revenue  laws,  and 
the  yet  more  limiting  consequences  of  recently  en- 
acted prohibition  laws,  the  path  of  the  moonshiner 
has  been  so  beset  that  he  has  resorted  to  various 
ways  of  increasing  the  value  of  his  product,  adding 
tobacco  and  other  deleterious  drugs  to  give  it 
"bead"  and  make  "seconds"  look  like  proof  whis- 
key. In  short,  he  now  makes  "mean  whiskey"  that 
sometimes  causes  a  curious  form  of  madness  in  the 
drinker. 

The  old  time  mountaineer,  so  far  as  moonshining 
w^as   concerned,  had  often  to  choose  between  two 


204        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

evils.  His  possession  consisted  perhaps  of  a  large 
family  and  a  small  cornfield,  the  latter  often  on  a 
mountain  slope  so  steep  that  its  staying  there  seemed 
little  short  of  miraculous.  His  corn  being  his  wealth, 
it  had  to  buy  the  clothes  of  the  family  if  they  had 
any.  He  could  with  great  labor  "tote"  it  down  the 
mountain  many  miles  to  the  nearest  market,  get 
next  to  nothing  for  it,  go  home  to  his  needy  family,  an 
"honest  man"  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  but  despised 
by  his  neighbors  as  being  "no  account"  in  the  war- 
fare of  life.  Or  he  could  betake  himself  to  some  lonely 
gorge  not  far  from  home,  "still  up"  his  grain,  easily 
transport  the  product  and  yet  more  easily  dispose  of 
it.  There  is  always  a  market  for  corn  in  this  form, 
and  the  price  it  brings  is  several  hundred  fold  that 
of  the  raw  material,  and  the  man  who  "stilled," 
though  a  reprobate  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  until  very 
recently  was  not  so  in  the  estimation  of  his  neigh- 
bors. His  family  was  fed  and  clothed,  he  waxed  rich, 
and  the  stranger  who  came  to  the  mountains  admired 
his  picturesque  home  and  praised  him  for  his  indus- 
try, unaware  of  the  true  nature  of  his  labors.  It 
must  have  been  a  nice  matter  for  any  judge,  taking 
into  consideration  all  the  circumstances,  to  decide 
whether  the  moonshiner  of  yesterday,  when  no 
avenues  to  livelihood  were  open,  was  a  "good "  man 
or  a  "bad"  one.  The  unsuccessful  moonshiner,  of 
course,  was  bad. 

Within  the  past  few  years  the  moonshiner,  along 
with  many  time-honored  customs,  has  been  rapidly 
vanishing.  But  before  that  one  often  met  him  in  the 


A  VANISHING   ROMANCE  205 

woods,  patrolling  some  lonely  path,  gun  on  shoulder. 
If  you  asked  him  what  he  was  doing  he  looked  at 
you  with  kind  and  guileless  eyes  and  told  you  he 
was  "lookin'  for  squirrels,"  and  as  soon  as  you  had 
passed  he  discharged  his  rifle,  not  into  your  quiver- 
ing body,  but  into  the  air  to  inform  his  confederates 
that  somebody  was  coming.  He  wore  no  mark  of 
Cain  upon  his  brow,  often  he  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
clev^er  and  fearless.  You  might  know  him  for  months, 
even  buy  eggs  or  mustard  greens  of  him  or  his  off- 
spring, without  suspecting  the  truth. 

The  moonshiner  required  gifts  of  a  high  order  to 
succeed  in  his  precarious  calling.  If  caught  distilling, 
there  was  a  heavy  fine  and  a  term  in  prison,  and 
whoever  pleased  could  get  ready  money  for  betray- 
ing his  hiding-place,  a  severe  strain  on  the  loyalty  of 
impecunious  or  unfriendly  neighbors.  He  owned  a 
piece  of  land  and  raised  corn  on  it,  but  not  corn 
enough.  He  was  always  buying  meal  or  carrying 
com  to  the  mill  to  be  ground.  Sometimes  he  took 
a  little  to  several  mills,  but  that  deceived  no  one. 
Everybody  knew  he  got  a  bag  of  meal  at  Scrugg's 
mill  on  Monday,  another  at  the  Pumpkin  Patch  mill 
on  Tuesday,  and  a  third  at  the  Bear  Wallow  on 
Thursday,  and  everybody  knew  what  he  did  with  it, 
though  if  you  asked  him  you  would  be  gravely  in- 
formed that  he  "  fed  hawgs." 

He  was  honest,  always  leaving  full  measure  in  the 
bottle  he  found  behind  a  stump.  The  method  of  ex- 
change was  simple :  You  put  your  bottle  in  company 
with  money  behind  a  stump  in  the  woods;  then  you 


206       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

told  the  first  mountain  man  you  met  what  you  had 
done.  Even  though  he  might  have  no  interest  in 
the  business,  by  some  system  of  communication  the 
news  was  conveyed  to  the  right  place,  and  when  you 
went  next  day  you  found  your  bottle  full.  Of  course 
you  kept  away  from  the  bottle's  hiding-place  mean- 
time.  The  system  did  not  work  under  observation. 

It  is  not  impossible,  even  in  these  days,  to  get 
samples  of  exhilarating  "corn  juice,"  a  colorless 
liquid  with  a  peculiar,  flower-like  aroma  that  deceives 
the  stranger.  It  seems,  for  the  first  second  after  it  is 
taken  into  the  mouth,  as  inoffensive  as  the  water  it 
looks  like,  with  a  delicate  flavor  of  wild  flowers. 
But  wait  another  second,  and  you  will  think  you 
have  performed  the  juggler's  feat  of  eating  fire,  but 
without  knowing  how.  In  time  it  might  ripen,  but 
it  never  has  time.  It  is  the  only  thing  in  the  South 
that  cannot  wait.  It  is  enough  to  strangle  a  croco- 
dile, and  yet  the  trained  native  finds  it  too  mild  to 
suit  his  palate  and  sometimes  adds  the  juice  of  the 
buckeye  to  give  it  zest.  If  you  have  ever  tasted 
buckeye  juice,  you  will  understand  that  it  is  able  to 
impart  zest. 

When  his  still  was  discovered,  the  moonshiner 
sometimes  argued  the  case  quickly  and  to  the  point 
with  his  gun,  but  generally  he  hid  away.  It  was  only 
from  the  "revenuers"  or  "raiders"  that  he  hid, 
however.  In  the  case  of  a  "spy,"  as  he  termed  those 
overzealous  neighbors  of  his  who  for  the  sake  of  the 
reward  paid  for  such  services  informed  the  revenue 
officers  where  to  find  his  still,  he  seldom  spared  the 


A  VANISHING   ROMANCE  207 

bullet,  and  it  was  as  apt  to  come  from  behind  as  any- 
where else,  such  "varmint"  not  being  considered 
worth  a  fair  fight.  The  life  of  an  informer,  if  he  was 
discovered,  was  worth  considerably  less  than  the 
sum  he  got  for  informing.  Sooner  or  later  he  came  to 
grief.  Of  course  the  law  made  an  effort  to  apprehend 
the  transgressor  in  such  cases,  but  the  forest  is  vast, 
and  the  quest  was  about  as  hopeless  as  hunting  for 
a  very  small  needle  in  a  very  large  haystack.  The 
woods  tell  no  tales,  nor  do  good  people  very  much 
regret  the  untimely  end  of  the  "informer,"  for  usu- 
ally his  kind  is  more  detrimental  to  a  community 
than  is  an  honest  outlaw. 

The  moonshiner  defended  his  still  as  other  men  do 
their  hearths.  When  two  moonshiners  fell  out,  they 
got  their  deepest  revenge  by  betraying  each  other's 
still.  This  was  generally  followed  by  the  shooting  of 
one  by  the  other,  when  vengeance  was  sure  to  descend 
upon  the  slayer,  the  avenger  in  his  turn  being  shot 
by  a  member  of  the  first  victim's  family.  Thus  was 
sometimes  started  a  blood  feud  that  lasted  for  gen- 
erations, or  until  the  death  of  the  last  male  on  one 
side.  These  deeds  sound  wild,  but  they  were  not  of 
common  occurrence,  and  all  shooting  was  strictly 
confined  to  quarrels  among  themselves.  A  stranger 
might  go  into  the  home  of  a  man  red-handed  with 
the  blood  of  his  foe  and  be  received  so  cordially  that 
he  would  never  suspect  his  frank  host  of  being 
"wanted "  in  the  criminal  court.  Such  lawless  deeds, 
although  they  sometimes  occurred,  were  not  fre- 
quent in  the  North  Carolina  mountains,  nor  were 


208       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

they  gilded  by  romance  outside  the  story-books  and 
newspapers.  Those  frightful  blood  feuds  that  have 
given  such  notoriety  to  certain  districts  in  Kentucky 
and  Virginia,  and  which  were  sometimes  though  not 
always  connected  with  moonshining,  are  unknown 
here. 

That  the  day  of  the  moonshiner  is  passing  is  well 
illustrated  by  the  fact  that  when  the  road  was  sur- 
veyed up  Tryon  Mountain  a  few  years  ago,  not  less 
than  half  a  dozen  moonshine  stills  were  routed  on 
the  little  streams  adorning  that  dignified  eminence, 
while  to-day  there  is  probably  not  a  single  still  on 
the  mountain.  Only  the  remains  of  the  stills  were 
found,  of  course,  for  by  the  time  the  surveyors  got 
there  the  watchful  owners  had  taken  away  the  cop- 
per retorts  and  whatever  else  was  valuable. 

Six  little  stills  gone  off  Tryon  Mountain  at  that 
time  undoubtedly  meant  six  little  stills  set  up  else- 
where in  the  mountains  near,  for  not  unless  the  re- 
tort was  found  and  destroyed,  and  he  too  poor  to 
buy  another,  did  the  owner  of  a  still  abandon  his 
occupation.  To  the  young  and  active  mountaineer 
there  was  for  long  an  irresistible  fascination  about 
moonshining.  In  it  he  found  combined,  as  it  were, 
the  excitements  of  war  with  the  reward  of  industry. 
It  was  his  Wall  Street  with  a  spice  of  personal  dan- 
ger thrown  in.  When  he  was  caught  and  put  in  jail 
he  was  terribly  ashamed,  not  of  being  in  jail,  but  of 
getting  caught.  It  was  something  of  a  shock  when 
one  first  came  to  the  mountains  to  have  a  woman 
tell  you  her  husband  was  in  jail  as  frankly  and  with 


A  VANISHING   ROMANCE  209 

as  little  consciousness  of  disgrace  as  she  might  tell 
you  that  he  had  gone  to  visit  his  relatives.  To  go  to 
jail  for  moonshining  was  almost  as  good  as  being  a 
martyr.  When  a  man  came  out,  his  friends  laughed 
and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  he  went  back  to 
"stilling"  with  a  grim  determination  not  to  get 
caught  again.  What  happened  to  the  stills  on  Tryon 
Mountain  is  fast  happening  everywhere;  as  roads 
and  settlements  come  in,  the  "moonshine  still"  goes 
out. 

Although  the  moonshiner  existed  everywhere  in 
the  mountains,  his  most  noted  retreat  was  in  the 
Dark  Corners,  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Blue 
Ridge.  W^here  is  this  mysterious  and  dangerous 
region?  Nobody  seems  to  know  exactly,  though  in  a 
general  way  it  is  over  towards  Hogback,  across  the 
South  Carolina  state  line.  In  course  of  time  one  dis- 
covers the  name  to  be  generic.  There  are  "  Dark 
Corners"  on  the  maps  in  various  states  of  the  South, 
but  they  are  not  related  to  each  other,  nor  to  us 
excepting  through  a  common  reputation  for  lawless- 
ness. If  nature  had  planned  our  Dark  Corners  on 
purpose  for  the  successful  distillation  of  iniquitous 
"corn-juice,"  she  could  not  have  planned  better, 
made  up  as  it  is  of  valleys  guarded  by  mountain 
walls,  furnished  with  rushing  streams,  and  with 
numerous  obscure  exits  in  different  directions.  Best 
of  all,  perhaps,  it  lies  directly  on  the  State  line,  for 
when  the  skein  of  the  moonshiner's  life  becomes 
tangled  by  spies  and  revenuers,  he  needs  another 
state  handy  to  step  into  for  rest  and  reflection,  and 


210         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

whence  he  can  in  safety  give  spirituous  consolation 
to  his  brethren. 

The  principal  water-course  of  our  Dark  Corners 
is  Vaughn's  Creek,  whose  source  is  supposed  to  be  in 
that  lovely  gap  between  Hogback  and  Rocky  Spur, 
into  which,  as  seen  from  Traumfest,  the  sun  drops 
and  disappears  at  the  winter  solstice,  and  whose  up- 
per waters  were  once  believed  to  be  bristling  with 
stills.  Of  course  no  outsider  was  supposed  to  go  into 
the  Dark  Corners,  but  any  one  might  follow  that 
road  winding  along  high  up  on  Melrose  Mountain 
to  a  certain  point,  where  looking  down  he  could  see 
directly  into  the  forbidden  region.  With  what 
breathless  curiosity  you  peer  down  there  the  first 
time!  And  what  do  you  see?  Did  you  not  know  it 
to  be  in  the  Dark  Corners,  you  might  suppose  it  to 
be  a  corner  in  some  paradise.  In  the  distance,  on  a 
mound  and  surrounded  by  tall  trees,  stands  a  large, 
old-fashioned  house.  Below  it  are  cultivated  fields 
covering  the  bottom  of  a  little  valley  through  which 
winds  a  stream,  one  of  the  numerous  tributaries  of 
Vaughn's  Creek.  Almost  beneath  you  is  a  cabin  with 
a  tall  tree  shading  it,  the  green  fields  beyond  it  merg- 
ing into  those  others.  The  term  "dark,"  it  is  evi- 
dent, cannot  refer  to  nature,  for  sunshine  floods  the 
place,  its  woods  we  are  sure  are  fragrant,  and  its 
streams  murmur  with  sweet  voices,  and  there  is  not 
the  slightest  sign  of  wickedness  anywhere  —  which 
is  a  little  disappointing.  This  of  course  is  only  one 
very  small  portion  of  the  Dark  Corners,  the  rest 
being  hidden  behind  wooded  ridges.  And  this  valley, 


A  VANISHING  ROMANCE  211 

with  its  sparkling  waters  and  high  surrounding 
mountains,  is  so  tempting  in  its  possibilities  that 
one  longs  for  the  means,  including  the  ability  of  the 
landscape  artist,  to  convert  it  into  the  dream  of 
beauty  it  could  so  easily  become. 

But  though  we  may  look  so  safely  down  into  one 
end  of  the  Dark  Corners,  hold  our  breath  up  there  on 
Melrose  Mountain,  and  see  nothing  to  hold  it  for, 
access  to  that  charmed  region  is  even  to-day  as 
difficult  to  the  stranger  as  it  has  always  been  be- 
lieved to  be  undesirable.  There  is  a  road  in,  but  it 
appears  to  have  been  designed  to  keep  people  out. 
By  far  the  easiest  way  to  get  there  is  to  walk.  And 
this  we  did  many  a  time  in  by-gone  days,  having 
first  made  friends  with  the  principal  offenders 
against  the  excise  law.  It  was  the  people  of  the 
Dark  Comers  who  muddled  our  hitherto  clear  con- 
victions about  right  and  wrong.  The  young  girls 
who  came  out  of  there  to  bring  us  flowers  smiled  as 
sweetly  as  any  child  of  fortune.  And  one  has  seen 
the  face  of  a  moonshiner  glow  with  an  expression 
that  assured  one  that,  whatever  the  verdict  of  the 
world,  he  would  not  be  counted  bad  in  that  final 
court  where  human  prejudices  are  ruled  out. 

That  the  Dark  Corners  got  its  name  from  the 
flourishing  but  questionable  industry  carried  on 
there  is  disputed  by  some,  who  say  that  the  name 
was  given,  not  because  of  moral  obliquity,  but  be- 
cause once  a  stump  orator,  trying  to  rouse  the  people 
at  some  political  crisis,  told  them  they  were  steeped 
in  ignorance,  that  they  lived  in  dark  corners,  and 


212       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

never  came  out  Into  the  light.  "Dark  Corners!" 
The  name  struck  the  fancy  of  deriding  neighbors 
and  stuck.  However  that  may  be,  Dark  Corners 
here  came  to  be  synonymous  with  the  haunt  of  the 
moonshiner,  whose  boldest  deeds  were  executed 
there  in  days  gone  by.  Many  tales  are  told  of  raids 
into  the  Dark  Corners,  of  tragedies  enacted  there, 
and  finally  of  the  clever  manner  in  which  the  "mas- 
ter moonshiner"  conducted  to  a  happy  issue  his 
perilous  vocation,  rendered  ever  more  perilous  by  the 
encroachments  of  civilization.  This  kindly  outlaw 
did  not  shoot  the  invaders;  he  invited  them  to  din- 
ner, cared  for  their  horses,  entertained  them  with  his 
best,  no  doubt  including  an  accidental  bottle,  then 
followed  them  to  his  still,  looked  on  while  they  de- 
stroyed his  expensive  outfit,  assisted  them  in  load- 
ing the  barrels  of  confiscated  "stuffs,"  even  politely 
lending  them  his  own  wagon  and  horses  to  convey  it 
away.  It  was  difficult  to  get  "stuff"  hauled  out  of 
the  Dark  Corners,  because  nobody  would  do  it.  No 
negro  driver  could  be  induced  to  go  in  there  at  any 
price,  so  it  was  a  real  kindness  to  be  helped  out  by 
the  moonshiner  himself. 

Such  conduct  as  this  could  not  fail  of  its  reward. 
The  "raider,"  so  it  is  said,  did  his  duty  to  the  extent 
of  satisfying  the  demands  of  his  office,  and  if  he 
suspected  that  the  stuff  confiscated  was  but  a  part, 
and  a  small  part,  of  what  remained  "hid  out"  in  the 
ravines,  he  did  not  overwork  his  conscience  nor  risk 
his  popularity  trying  to  find  it.  Neither  did  he  ac- 
cuse the  man,  who  had  treated  him  so  handsomely, 


A  VANISHING  ROMANCE  213 

of  owning  the  still  found  so  near  his  house.  This  was 
a  coincidence  which  did  not  concern  him.  Neither 
did  he  come  too  often  nor  too  secretly.  It  was  whis- 
pered that  it  was  not  to  the  Interest  of  the  revenuer 
to  destroy  so  good  an  excuse  for  his  own  office. 

Of  course  a  good  deal  depended  upon  the  quality  of 
the  "  revenuer  "  assigned  to  a  district,  but  even  that 
could  be  arranged,  it  not  being  unheard  of  for  the 
brother  or  other  near  relative  of  a  notorious  moon- 
shiner to  be  elected  to  that  discreet  office.  There  are 
a  good  many  ways  to  evade  an  unpopular  law  In  a 
country  where  the  majority  is  "agin  the  govern- 
ment." Even  the  licensed  stills  have  been  known  to 
be  operated  most  successfully  by  clever  moonshiners 
who  knew  how  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  the  Inspec- 
tor and  at  the  same  time  manipulate  the  machinery 
in  a  way  to  make  licensed  distilling  pay  as  well  as 
that  not  licensed. 

It  would  be  hasty  to  affirm  that  "blockade"  is  no 
longer  made  In  the  mountains,  but  It  is  not  now  made 
in  the  free-and-easy  manner  and  on  the  compara- 
tively large  scale  of  former  years,  although  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  the  amount  of  whiskey  manufactured  in 
the  little  mountain  stills  has  never  been  worth  the 
cost  of  trying  to  restrain  It. 

In  these  days  those  rows  of  demijohn-shaped  jugs 
in  which  Traumfest  used  to  transport  her  "vinegar" 
are  no  more  seen  standing  on  the  platform  of  the 
railway  station.  It  is  astonishing  the  amount  of 
vinegar  that  used  to  go  out  of  Traumfest,  In  jugs. 
It  had  a  powerful  alcoholic  smell,  this  vinegar,  but 


214       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

those  who  handled  It  turned  the  olfactory  equiva- 
lent of  a  deaf  ear  to  this  peculiarity,  and  having  re- 
ceived it  as  vinegar,  unquestioningly  passed  it  on 
as  such.  It  went  to  other  stations,  where  it  was  re- 
ceived by  those  in  waiting,  and  by  them  distributed 
to  such  as  needed  this  sort  of  vinegar  to  their  salad. 
Sometimes  it  was  "molasses"  jugs  that  had  this 
peculiar  smell,  which  was  no  odor  of  sanctity,  nor 
yet  of  honest  sorghum. 

To  visit  a  moonshine  still  was  the  natural  desire 
of  all  good  people,  and  this  could  easily  be  done  after 
the  confidence  of  the  owner  had  been  gained,  for  he 
then  trusted  you  completely.  It  is  psychologically 
an  interesting  experience.  The  forest  seems  full  of 
eyes  as  you  follow  your  guide  through  the  lonely 
paths.  You  have  a  feeling  that  somebody  is  looking 
at  you  and  reading  the  truth  in  your  guilty  heart. 
For  the  moment  you,  too,  are  an  outlaw,  and  the 
mingled  feelings  that  assail  you  are  not  wholly  disa- 
greeable. One's  feelings  undergo  a  curious  change, 
however,  upon  finding  the  still,  not  in  a  cave  on  a 
wild  mountain-side,  nor  in  some  all  but  inaccessible 
glen,  but  in  a  little  ravine  near  the  moonshiner's 
home,  where  live  his  wife  and  little  children,  those 
beautiful  little  children  so  common  in  this  country. 
One  notices  the  delicate  framework  of  both  parents, 
the  small  hands  and  feet  characteristic  of  the  people 
of  the  South,  the  well-formed  features,  the  unful- 
filled promise  of  a  nature  designed  for  a  life  of  refine- 
ment. 

The  man  leads  you  to  his  still  as  naturally  as  he 


A  VANISHING  ROMANCE  215 

would  take  you  to  see  his  corn-mill.  You  are  aston- 
ished to  find  how  near  the  still  is  to  the  house,  until 
you  reflect  how  far  away  the  house  itself  is.  The 
object  of  your  quest  is  perhaps  so  hidden  in  the  ra- 
vine that  you  do  not  suspect  its  presence  until  you 
are  standing  directly  over  it,  and  then  would  not 
know  but  for  a  faint  line  of  smoke  coming  up  through 
the  tree- tops.  The  path  to  it  is  very  obscure:  you 
might  have  thought  it  a  rabbit-path;  and  yet  the 
still  has  been  here  undisturbed  for  ten  years.  To 
maintain  a  still  without  a  path  is  part  of  the  business. 
Following  the  steep  trail  to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine, 
you  soon  find  yourself  at  the  still,  which  consists 
of  a  low  roof  covering  a  little  furnace  made  of  stones. 
In  one  end  of  the  furnace  is  cemented  the  copper 
retort,  a  picturesque  object  suggesting  wizards  and 
alchemists.  The  pipe  connects  the  retort  with  the 
"worm"  that  lies  coiled  in  a  keg  of  running  water, 
and  from  which  through  a  tube  is  escaping  in  a 
slender  stream  the  precious  liquor  that  resembles 
water  in  looks  but  not  in  taste.  A  vat  or  two  of 
"beer,"  or  fermenting  meal,  giving  forth  a  sour, 
yeasty  smell,  a  few  jugs  and  kegs  waiting  to  be 
filled  —  such  is  the  moonshiner's  still.  The  fire  is 
made  of  rails  or  poles,  one  end  burning  in  the  fur- 
nace. To  feed  the  fire,  it  is  only  necessary  to  push 
up  the  fuel  as  the  ends  burn  off.  It  is  better  not  to 
chop  wood  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  still,  lest  chips 
betray  the  workman. 

A  visit  to  the  moonshine   still,  no  matter  how 
often  one  may  go,  never  ceases  to  be  exciting.    It 


2i6       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

may  be  the  spice  of  danger  attached  to  it  that  makes 
the  fire  glow  with  so  red  and  sinister  an  eye  in  the 
rude  furnace,  and  light  up  so  dramatically  the  human 
figures  in  the  wild  glen  closely  curtained  with  laurel 
and  rhododendron  leaves.  Sometimes  the  inside  of 
the  still  is  almost  as  dark  as  night,  because  of  no 
windows  and  the  close-pressing  foliage,  when  one's 
feelings  are  heightened  in  proportion. 

Notwithstanding  the  abundance  of  "moonshine" 
one  seldom  sees  drunkenness  in  the  mountains, 
though  one  would  do  well,  so  it  is  said,  to  avoid  cer- 
tain regions  of  a  Saturday  night,  for  then  the  lovers 
of  strong  waters  betake  themselves  to  secret  places 
in  the  woods,  where  bottles  change  hands  and  young 
men  on  the  way  home  sing  out  of  tune. 

It  is  not  long  since,  walking  along  the  roads  of  a 
Saturday  afternoon,  one  would  see  a  fresh-cut  laurel 
bush  lying  in  the  path  or  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
If  you  followed  the  direction  in  which  it  pointed, 
you  would  find  another  one  at  the  first  intersecting 
path,  either  pointing  up  the  path  or  away  from  it. 
You  might  not  notice  these  bushes,  but  there  were 
those  who  would.  Every  mountaineer,  seeing  a 
fresh-cut  laurel  bush  in  the  road  of  a  Saturday 
"evening,"  —  it  is  evening  here  after  midday, — 
knew  it  to  be  what  the  gypsies  call  a  patteran,  and 
that  to  follow  the  direction  in  which  it  pointed  would 
lead  him  finally  to  some  well-hidden  spot  where  a 
man  with  a  jug  was  waiting  for  customers.  The 
patteran  would  guide  any  one  to  the  appointed  place, 
but  unless  you  were  a  regular  customer  or  known  to 


A  VANISHING   ROMANCE  217 

be  going  with  honest  intentions  you  would  not  find 
any  one  when  you  got  there.  You  might  notice, 
however,  a  man  sauntering  along  the  path  ahead  of 
you,  loudly  whistling. 

Yes,  the  moonshiner  seems  almost  to  have  van- 
ished from  many  parts  of  the  North  Carolina  moun- 
tains, with  whatever  of  romance  the  story-books 
have  attached  to  him.  The  people  who  still  demand 
strong  waters  may  know  how  to  get  them,  but  one 
no  longer  sees  the  patteran  of  Saturday  evenings, 
nor  those  rows  of  odd-smelling  molasses  jugs  on  the 
platform  of  the  railway  station,  fearlessly  awaiting 
the  coming  of  the  train. 


XXI 

CHURCH  AND   SCHOOL 

WHEN  you  see  little  groups  of  people  assembled 
at  the  houses  or  moving  from  place  to  place, 
the  men  newly  shaven,  the  women  and  children 
dressed  in  their  best,  you  may  know  it  is  Sunday. 
When  there  is  no  church,  everybody  goes  visiting, 
and  one  should  think  from  the  numbers  collected 
in  the  dooryards  of  some  of  the  houses  that  these 
visitations  must  strain  the  capacity  of  the  bean-pot 
considerably.  For  whoever  comes  must  be  invited 
to  dinner. 

If  it  is  "preaching-day"  the  people  are  found  all 
moving  towards  one  point,  the  settlement  church, 
which,  like  the  school-house,  generally  stands  "at 
a  point  equally  inconvenient  for  everybody."  In 
the  villages  and  larger  settlements,  the  minister  is 
resident,  and  the  churches  are  like  other  country 
churches,  but  outside  the  villages,  services  are  con- 
ducted in  the  barnlike  little  "church-houses"  by  an 
itinerant  preacher,  the  frequency  of  whose  visits 
depends  upon  the  size  of  his  parish  and  the  distances 
he  has  to  travel.  Hence  it  happens  that  upon  the 
death  of  a  person  in  a  remote  district,  although  the 
actual  "burying"  takes  place  at  once,  one  may  be 
invited  weeks  or  months  or  even  a  year  or  more 
afterward  to  attend  the  "funeral,"  a  very  important 


CHURCH  AND  SCHOOL  219 

ceremony  which  is  frequently  deferred  until  the 
presence  of  some  favorite  preacher  is  obtainable, 
and  to  which  come  friends  and  relatives  from  far 
and  near. 

The  itinerant  preacher  is  nearly  always  a  native 
who  has  very  little  more  "  book-larnin' "  than  the 
rest  of  the  people,  and  who  may  be  seen  in  the  field 
on  week  days  ploughing  with  his  "ole  mule"  ex- 
actly like  his  neighbors.  He  chooses  his  calling  be- 
cause of  his  natural  gifts,  his  reward  oftentimes  being 
the  opportunity  to  exercise  his  talents.  Once,  ask- 
ing the  wife  of  a  hard-working  farmer  preacher  how 
much  he  got  for  his  arduous  Sunday  services,  some- 
times requiring  him  to  start  the  day  before,  the 
astonishing  reply  was,  "Oh,  he  don't  get  nothing. 
He  says  it  takes  them  as  long  to  come  and  hear  him 
as  it  takes  him  to  preach,  and  the  least  he  can  do,  if 
they  take  the  trouble  to  come,  is  to  preach  to  them." 
A  novel  and  refreshing  view  of  pastoral  duty  in  these 
days. 

The  people  as  a  rule  are  Baptists,  though  there  are 
a  few  Methodist,  Presbyterian,  and  Episcopalian 
centres  which  are  rapidly  enlarging,  but  the  religion 
of  the  mountains  may  be  said  to  take  naturally  the 
Baptist  form,  and  when  you  see  a  crowd  down  on 
the  river-bank  some  Sunday,  you  may  be  sure  there 
is  a  "baptizing"  going  on. 

The  people  are  devout  and  good  church-goers,  but 
the  old-time  native  preacher  knows  how  to  preach 
nothing  but  doctrine,  he  produces  emotional  effect 
by  intonation  and  the  frequent  introduction  of  a 


220       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

long-drawn  and  hysterical  "ah"  —  thus,  "Oh, 
Lord  —  ah  —  be  —  ah  —  merciful  —  ah  —  to  these 
thy  —  ah  —  children  —  ah,"  and  so  it  goes,  with 
increasing  intensity  for  an  hour  or  more.  The  effect 
of  this  must  be  heard  to  be  appreciated.  To  preach 
less  than  an  hour,  no  matter  how  much  or  what  may 
be  said,  is  a  sign  of  incompetency. 

On  "preaching-Sunday"  the  people  conscien- 
tiously go  to  church,  however  distant  it  may  be,  but 
the  prayer-meetings  introduced  by  newcomers  have 
slight  attendance.  "I  reckon  they're  clar  plumb 
dilatory,"  the  Baptist  minister's  wife,  who  washed 
clothes  for  summer  visitors,  explained  of  her  neigh- 
bors who  could  not  be  induced  to  attend  a  mid-week 
meeting. 

Besides  the  orthodox  Baptists,  there  are  various 
offshoots,  such  as  the  "Washfoot  Babdists,"  and 
very  popular  just  now,  the  "Wholly  Sanctified," 
the  mystic  meaning  of  whose  doctrine,  being  liter- 
ally interpreted  by  some  erring  brethren,  is  a  cause 
of  much  trouble  both  to  the  defenders  of  the  faith 
and  the  community  at  large.  Under  the  Smoky 
Mounteln  we  heard  of  a  sect  of  "  Barkers,"  who,  the 
people  said,  in  their  religious  frenzy  run  and  bark  up 
a  tree  in  the  belief  that  Christ  is  there. 

The  mountain  school,  like  the  mountain  church, 
varies  with  the  locality,  out  in  the  country  resem- 
bling the  barnlike  church-house,  only  being  smaller 
and,  until  very  recently,  built  of  logs.  It  sometimes 
stands  in  the  lonely  forest  so  far  from  any  one  that 
finding  the  school-house  seems  to  be  the  child's  first 


CHURCH   AND  SCHOOL  221 

step  to  an  education,  the  second  step  being  to  acquire 
learning  in  spite  of  the  opportunities  offered.  The 
log  school-house  was  picturesque  in  the  extreme, 
but  as  an  educational  institution  it  lacked  many 
things.  Sometimes  it  lacked  windows,  relying  upon 
the  cracks  between  the  logs  and  the  open  door  for 
light  and  ventilation.  Its  furnishing  consisted  of 
benches,  and  a  chair  for  the  teacher,  while  the  books 
were  few  and  as  antiquated  as  the  furniture.  The 
condition  of  the  school-house  in  the  remoter  regions, 
oftentimes  did  not  greatly  interest  the  people.  Once 
upon  protesting  against  a  school-house  with  no 
windows,  the  father  of  several  of  the  children  in 
attendance  replied  that  the  children's  eyes  were 
strong  and  it  did  them  no  harm  to  learn  their  lessons 
in  the  dark. 

"  Book-larnin' "  evidently  is  not  the  thing  that 
most  absorbs  the  remote  mountaineer's  waking 
hours.  He  takes  his  children's  schooling  as  he  takes 
their  measles,  not  very  seriously.  A  few  parents  are 
anxious  to  have  their  children  educated,  the  rest  are 
indifferent,  not  quite  comprehending  what  good  can 
come  to  the  children  from  something  they  them- 
selves have  had  so  little  use  for.  Nor  can  one  blame 
those  parents  who  prefer  to  keep  the  children  at 
home  rather  than  send  them  miles,  it  may  be,  through 
the  forest  and  over  rushing  streams,  to  the  school- 
house  where  school  "takes  up"  for  only  a  few  weeks 
in  the  year,  and  where  the  teacher,  like  the  rest  of  the 
people,  knows  little  more  than  how  to  be  kind.  The 
advantages  of  such  schooling  are  apparent,  and  one 


222       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

wonders  whether  that  father  were  more  a  philoso- 
pher or  a  humorist  who,  being  condoled  with  because 
the  school  was  so  far  away,  "reckoned"  it  was  just 
as  well  because  the  children  were  therefore  better 
contented  to  stay  at  home.  Another  parent,  phil- 
osophizing upon  the  questionable  advantages  of 
"  book-larnin' "  for  his  children,  ended  with  the  opti- 
mistic assertion,  "Well,  I  reckon  it  don't  hurt  'em 
noway  —  they  so  soon  fergit  it  all."  And  the  woman 
who  said  contentedly,  "I  can't  neither  read  nor 
write,  but  I  don't  need  to,  for  God  has  given  me  a 
pretty  wit,"  summed  up  the  ancient  philosophy  of 
a  large  part  of  the  mountains. 

Passing  a  roadside  school-house  at  "recess" 
time,  one  is  astonished  at  the  number  of  children 
crowding  about  the  building.  The  forest  may  seem 
like  an  uninhabited  wilderness,  yet  there  are  children 
enough  to  supply  a  small  village.  And  even  at  the 
school-house  far  from  the  road,  and  hidden  so  well 
that  it  is  cause  for  wonder  that  the  children  ever 
find  it,  one  has  seen  them  come  darting  out  of  the 
forest  like  rabbits,  barefooted  and  sunbonneted, 
carrying  such  books  as  they  had,  and  swinging  their 
"dinner  buckets"  —  lard  pails  most  of  them.  If 
you  expect  to  find  these  young  backwoodsmen  as 
shy  as  quails  and  overcome  at  the  unprecedented 
appearance  of  strangers  in  their  midst,  you  will  be 
mistaken.  They  are  not  shy,  and  they  are  not  bold, 
these  children  of  the  forest  of  Arden.  They  are  glad 
to  see  you,  and  show  it  in  smiles  as  broad  as  nature 
has  made  provision  for.  You  feel  that  if  you  stayed  a 


CHURCH  AND  SCHOOL  223 

little  longer  they  would  all  invite  you  to  go  home 
with  them. 

There  is  no  truant  officer  in  the  mountains,  and  no 
need  of  one.  The  children  love  to  go  to  school  and 
go  so  long  as  there  is  a  school  day  left,  unless  circum- 
stances in  the  form  of  younger  brothers  and  sisters 
and  the  stern  hand  of  parental  control  forbid.  Per- 
haps their  devotion  is  partly  accounted  for  in  the 
length  of  the  school  year,  which  lasts  from  six  weeks, 
to  three  or  four  months.  You  do  not  have  time  to 
get  tired  of  going  to  a  school  that  lasts  only  six  weeks 
with  forty-six  weeks  of  vacation  to  look  forw^ard  to. 

The  log  school-house  is  fast  vanishing  from  the 
North  Carolina  mountains  where  so  many  changes 
have  been  made  within  a  few  years.  And  while  the 
schools  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness  are  un- 
doubtedly still  primitive  enough  to  compete  with 
any  of  the  noted  log  schools  that  nurtured  genius  in 
former  days,  genius  is  not  nurtured  in  them  here,  for 
it  can  quickly  find  its  way  to  the  better  schools  of 
the  villages  that  are  becoming  more  and  more  ac- 
cessible. Indeed,  educational  opportunities  are  in- 
creasing on  all  sides  at  the  same  quick  pace  that 
characterizes  the  other  "improvements"  that  are 
now  transforming  the  wilderness  into  something 
else,  though  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  there  is 
yet  no  room  for  improvement. 

There  are  schools  for  higher  education,  colleges 
and  industrial  schools,  in  the  mountains  themselves, 
as  well  as  in  the  country  just  below  the  mountains, 
and  now  a  law  has  been  passed  which  retires  the 


224       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

unlettered  mountain  girl  as  a  teacher  in  favor  of  the 
one  who  can  show  a  normal  school  certificate,  there 
being  three  normal  schools  in  the  mountains,  as  well 
as  normal  departments  in  other  mountain  institu- 
tions. The  school-houses  are  being  rebuilt,  and  even 
now  the  last  log  school-house  may  have  closed  its 
doors  forever  on  the  youth  of  the  North  Carolina 
mountains. 

Ten  years  ago  statistics  of  illiteracy  in  these 
mountains  were  almost  startling.  It  was  calculated 
that  there  was  a  school  attendance  of  only  about 
one  third  of  the  children  of  school  age,  while  the 
condition  of  the  buildings,  the  quality  of  the  teach- 
ing, and  the  length  of  the  school  year  in  the  country 
districts  were  such  as  to  leave  those  who  attended 
school  little  better  instructed  than  those  who  did  not. 
Since  that  time  much  has  been  done  to  wake  up 
the  people  to  the  value  of  education,  as  well  as  in 
providing  means  to  such  an  end,  but  necessarily 
there  yet  remains  a  large  army  of  mountain  people 
who  can  neither  read  nor  write. 

The  older  educational  institutions  are  of  course  in 
or  near  Asheville,  and  these  have  steadily  bettered 
their  equipment  with  the  passing  of  time.  Now  all 
through  the  mountains  one  finds  the  established  vil- 
lage schools  increasing  in  efficiency  and  new  schools 
being  started.  Among  the  educational  institutions 
none  give  better  promise  than  the  industrial  schools 
that  have  sprung  up  here  and  there  within  recent 
years.  The  churches  are  now  as  a  rule  putting  forth 
their  most  earnest  efforts  in  this  direction,  wisely 


CHURCH   AND  SCHOOL  225 

seeking  to  do  that  which  the  regular  educational 
institutions  leave  undone,  and  many  earnest  souls 
are  devoting  their  powers  to  teaching  the  people 
how  to  live  as  well  as  how  to  think  and  believe. 

Perhaps  no  better  illustration  of  the  struggles  and 
conquests  of  these  workers  can  be  given  than  that  of 
Brevard  Institute,  near  Brevard,  in  the  French 
Broad  Valley.  This  school,  started  in  1895,  through 
the  self-sacrificing  efforts  of  one  man  has  struggled 
on,  kept  alive  mainly  by  that  internal  heat  which 
alone  gives  any  institution  real  growth-power. 
To-day  it  enrolls  nearly  two  hundred  pupils,  most  of 
them  girls,  as  the  department  for  young  men  is  not 
yet  fully  developed.  Here  come  young  people  from 
all  parts  of  the  mountains  and  for  a  price  within 
their  means  receive  home,  education,  and  training 
in  the  practical  things  of  life.  That  the  spirit  in 
which  the  school  was  founded  yet  persists  is  felt  the 
moment  one  enters  its  doors,  when  one  becomes 
aware  of  such  an  atmosphere  of  love  and  helpful- 
ness, from  the  principal  down  to  the  youngest  pupil, 
that  it  is  a  pleasure  to  go  there  and  bask  in  the 
warmth  of  it.  Not  that,  even  to-day,  the  equipment 
is  anything  like  adequate  to  the  needs,  but  the  re- 
sults prove  that  the  poorest  tools  in  loving  hands  can 
accomplish  much. 

Besides  the  ordinary  academic  subjects  and  special 
religious  training,  the  pupils  are  here  taught  "a 
dread  of  debt,  promptness  in  attending  to  business 
obligations  of  every  sort,  a  love  for  thoroughness  and 
accuracy  in  doing  work  of  every  sort,  self-control 


226         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

in  the  expenditure  of  money,  and  a  knowledge  of 
simple  business  transactions."  There  is  a  business 
course,  a  department  of  music,  one  of  domestic  art 
where  is  taught  dressmaking,  millinery,  and  lace- 
making,  and  a  department  of  domestic  science  where 
the  subjects  taught  are  housework,  cookery,  laun- 
dry, and  mending.  In  the  normal  department,  "it 
is  the  intention  to  show  young  teachers  how  manual 
training,  sand  tables,  dramatization,  phonics,  and  so 
forth,  can  be  introduced  and  profitably  used  even 
where  there  is  no  equipment."  Thus  young  people 
are  prepared  to  go  home  to  the  little  mountain 
schools  and  there  spread  abroad  the  information 
and  the  ideals  they  have  themselves  received,  as 
well  as  to  go,  if  they  are  so  inclined,  into  the  world  of 
action  now  opening  below  and  in  the  mountains,  and 
whose  demands  for  helpers  in  all  departments  is  in 
excess  of  a  competent  supply.  Brevard  Institute  is 
but  one  among  a  number  of  Industrial  schools  that 
are  doing  their  part,  against  all  sorts  of  difficulties, 
to  help  on  the  transformation  that  is  so  rapidly 
taking  place  In  the  Southern  mountains. 

Another  form  of  practical  education  is  well  illus- 
trated in  the  Allenstand  Cottage  Industries,  which  is 
settlement  work  carried  on  in  remote,  and  what  one 
might  call  side-tracked,  districts.  This  work  began, 
with  a  day  school  as  a  nucleus,  in  a  cove  in  the 
mountains  In  the  northwestern  part  of  Buncombe 
County,  long  before  the  present  wave  of  prosperity 
had  drawn  near  to  the  mountains.  Here  the  difficult 
question  of  how  to  bring  to  the  people  material  help 


CHURCH   AND  SCHOOL  227 

without  spiritually  hurting  them  was  finally  an- 
swered, we  are  told,  by  the  gift  from  a  well-to-do 
"neighbor  woman"  of  a  home-woven  coverlet  forty 
years  old,  slightly  faded  but  still  beautiful  in  its 
golden  brown  and  cream  hues. 

This  worn  old  coverlet  became  as  it  were  a  palimp- 
sest whereon  love  deciphered  the  history  of  the  past 
for  the  enlightenment  of  the  present.  Looms  had 
almost  disappeared,  chemical  dyes  had  replaced  the 
old-time  vegetable  dyes  in  coloring  the  "linsey 
cloth,"  still  sometimes  made,  and  the  yarn  spun  for 
stockings.  But  the  spinning-wheels  were  there  and 
gave  a  clue  by  which  the  settlement  workers  ingeni- 
ously found  their  way  out  of  the  labyrinth.  Wool 
from  a  neighboring  valley  was  obtained  and  given 
out  to  be  carded  and  spun  by  hand,  then,  in  the 
words  of  one  of  the  workers :  — 

"The  coloring  was  the  next  business,  and  it  was  a 
matter  of  time  to  learn  from  the  older  women  the 
secrets  of  the  indigo  pot  and  of  the  coloring  with 
barks  and  leaves.  We  learned  that  for  the  best  re- 
sults the  indigo  dye  should  be  used  before  the  wool 
was  spun.  Whence  the  old  phrase  '  dyed  in  the  wool.' 
The  formula  for  a  blue-pot  demanded,  besides  the 
indigo,  bran,  madder,  and  lye,  the  ingredient  of 
patience,  till  the  pot,  set  beside  the  hearth  to  keep 
it  at  the  right  temperature,  saw  fit  to  'come.'  Then 
the  dipping  of  the  wool  began.  For  a  deep  blue  this 
dipping  must  be  repeated  five  or  six  times,  and  the 
pot  'renewed  up'  between  times,  as  the  strength  of 
the  color  was  exhausted.   The  coloring  with  madder 


228        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

was  less  of  a  circumstance.  Gradually  we  learned 
of  many  other  dyes,  of  leaves  and  barks  and  flowers, 
giving  us  a  variety  of  soft  hues  —  browns,  yellows, 
greens,  orange,  and  also  an  excellent  black.  The 
true  green  is  obtained  by  dyeing  first  with  a  yellow 
dye  and  then  dipping  in  the  blue-pot,  but  a  good 
olive  green  is  given  by  using  hickory  bark  with 
something  to  'set  the  dye.*  Every  year  we  gather 
the  '  bay  leaves '  for  the  bright  yellow,  and  harvest 
for  winter  use  the  'yellow  dyeflower'  growing  on  the 
high  ridges. 

"But  to  return  to  the  beginnings.  When  yarn 
enough  for  three  coverlets  had  been  prepared,  the 
next  step  was  to  find  a  weaver  of  the  double  draft  — 
that  is,  of  the  coverlet  material  with  shotover  de- 
signs. This  requires  four  sets  of  harness  In  the  loom, 
instead  of  two  as  for  plain  cloth,  and  four  treadles  as 
well.  The  warp  is  'drawn  in'  and  the  weaving 
'tramped'  according  to  a  paper  pattern  which  is 
pinned  up  on  the  front  of  the  loom.  A  number  of 
women  in  the  cove  knew  well  how  to  weave  plain 
linsey  and  jeans,  but  no  one  could  weave  the  cover- 
lets. Sixteen  miles  away,  and  farther  from  the  rail- 
road, we  found  a  family  where  mother  and  daughters 
had  great  store  of  spreads,  old  and  new,  to  which 
they  were  continually  adding.  As  they  showed  these 
treasures  to  us,  the  variety  of  design  was  bewilder- 
ing. At  last  we  chose  two  patterns,  and  the  women 
undertook  to  weave  our  yarn  for  us.  It  was  an  ex- 
citing moment  when,  two  weeks  later,  our  messenger 
returned  carrying  across  his  horse's  back  the  long 


CHURCH   AND  SCHOOL  229 

roll  of  weaving.  Now  came  the  question  whether 
there  was  a  market  for  such  work.  This  was  soon 
ascertained.  Our  first  coverlets  were  sold  in  a  few 
weeks,  and  the  demand  for  more  was  enough  to 
justify  at  least  a  small  start  in  business.  So  an  enter- 
prising young  woman  near  us  volunteered  to  learn 
the  double  draft.  A  loom  was  found  for  sale  in  the 
*Ivy  Country,'  and  hauled  to  us,  more  wool  bought 
and  more  spinners  set  to  work." 

Thus  started  what  has  grown  to  be  an  important 
industry  to  that  part  of  the  mountains.  From  this 
cove  one  of  the  settlement  workers  pressed  yet  deeper 
into  the  wilderness,  to  the  "Laurel  Country,"  as  all 
that  region  drained  by  tributaries  of  Big  Laurel 
Creek  is  called.  Here,  away  up  on  Little  Laurel 
Creek,  near  the  Tennessee  line,  almost  due  north 
from  Hot  Springs,  and  close  under  the  wild  Bald 
Mountains,  at  a  place  called  Allenstand,  the  work 
was  begun  again.  Once  Allenstand  was  a  stopping- 
place  on  one  of  those  early  roads  over  which  passed 
the  traffic  in  cattle,  sheep,  horses,  and  swine  from 
Tennessee  to  the  eastern  lowlands,  and  from  this 
it  got  its  name,  a  "stand"  being  a  place  where 
drovers  stopped  overnight  with  their  charges,  this 
particular  one  being  kept  by  a  man  named  Allen. 
Allenstand  may  have  been  prosperous  in  those  days, 
but  the  tide  of  traffic  becoming  diverted,  the  people 
living  there  were  left  to  primitive  conditions  until 
the  coming  of  the  woman  who  was  to  open  the  doors 
to  them,  for  it  is  to  one  woman  that  the  "Laurel 
Country"  owes  its  prosperity.  It  is  always  the  indi- 


230       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

vidual  who  divines  and  conquers  the  difficulties  in  an 
undertaking  of  this  sort,  and  so  signal  has  been  the 
success  of  this  inspired  worker  that  she  is  known  to 
the  outside  world  as  the  "Bishop  of  the  Laurel 
Country,"  for  about  Allenstand  as  a  centre  have 
sprung  up  a  number  of  similar  settlements  at  inter- 
vals of  a  few  miles. 

To  the  making  of  the  more  elaborate  coverlets  was 
added  the  simpler  weaving  of  linsey  which  the  coun- 
try people  themselves  cannot  afford  to  buy,  it  having 
become  a  luxury  for  dwellers  in  the  outer  world,  to 
whom  it  offers  itself,  not  only  for  outing  wear,  but 
also  as  suitable  material  for  tailor-made  gowns !  Also 
floor  rugs  were  made,  as  well  as  rag  rugs  for  which 
the  colors  are  chosen  and  blended  with  very  pleasing 
results.  Indeed,  there  is  work  done  and  experiments 
constantly  being  made  in  various  kinds  of  weaving 
and  embroidering,  as  well  as  in  basket-work  and 
simple  w^ood-carving.  And  there  is  now  a  room  at 
Asheville  where  the  products  of  this  settlement  are 
on  sale. 

Younger  than  Allenstand,  and  more  remarkable  as 
an  illustration  of  the  possibilities  of  the  mountaineer 
for  a  high  type  of  development,  is  the  industrial 
school  at  Biltmore.  Here  the  rector  of  All  Souls',  the 
Biltmore  church,  recognizing  the  needs  of  the  people, 
secured  the  services  of  two  women  gifted  with  the 
genius  necessary  to  carry  such  a  work  to  perfec- 
tion, and  who  in  ten  years'  time  have  developed  to 
its  present  remarkable  point  what  is  known  as  the 
"Biltmore  Industries,"  the  history  of  which  is  as 


CHURCH  AND  SCHOOL  231 

Interesting  as  a  story.  The  school  was  designed  to 
meet  the  needs  of  the  people  connected  with  the 
Biltmore  estate,  and  the  enthusiastic  founders 
started  with  four  boys,  the  first  one  of  whom  had 
to  be  paid  to  come!  To-day  some  of  those  who  first 
entered  are  carving  chairs  for  the  great  establish- 
ment of  Tiffany  of  New  York,  and  more  than  one 
hundred  of  the  pupils  are  earning  a  livelihood  by 
their  woodcarving  craft.  One  young  man,  upon  be- 
coming engaged  to  be  married,  made  for  his  future 
home  a  whole  set  of  beautiful  Chippendale  furniture. 
The  workers  are  paid  from  the  moment  they  begin, 
and  the  older  ones  are  not  only  self-supporting,  but 
they  are  technically  and  artistically  educated  to  the 
enjoyment  of  a  kind  of  life  which  otherwise  they 
could  neither  have  attained  nor  appreciated. 

Woodcarving  is  not  the  only  work  done  at  the 
Biltmore  Industries,  as  witness  the  rolls  of  cloth 
lying  on  the  table  of  the  industrial  rooms,  cloth 
woven  by  the  women  in  their  own  looms  and  colored 
by  natural  plant  dyes.  There  is  also  embroidery, 
beautiful  in  color,  design,  and  w^orkmanship,  and 
the  girls,  after  some  diplomatic  manoeuvres  to  over- 
come the  opposition  of  the  militant  sex,  now  also 
carve.  Thus  in  the  embroidery,  carving,  and  weaving 
the  women,  like  the  men,  are  getting  far  more  than 
pay  for  their  work.  One  of  the  pleasures  of  going  to 
Biltmore  is  a  visit  to  the  rooms  of  the  Industries 
where  the  work  of  the  people  is  shown  and  ex- 
plained. 


XXII 

THE   CHEROKEE   NATION 

THE  railroads  that  have  triumphantly  sur- 
mounted the  Blue  Ridge  and  taken  the  moun- 
tains, as  it  were,  by  storm,  make  it  easy  in  these 
days  to  get  within  reach  of  the  formerly  almost  inac- 
cessible places.  Besides  those  that  have  crossed  the 
mountains,  and  the  short  line  up  the  French  Broad 
Valley  to  the  "Sapphire  Country,"  there  is  the 
"Murphy  Branch"  that  connects  Asheville  with 
Atlanta,  Georgia,  by  a  circuitous  route  down  the 
very  centre  of  the  plateau  around  and  over  obstruct- 
ing mountains. 

At  intervals  along  the  Murphy  Branch,  villages 
have  grown  up,  the  largest  of  which,  Waynesville,  is 
beautifully  placed  close  to  the  Balsam  Mountains, 
and  has  long  been  a  favorite  summer  resort.  The  next 
most  important  are  Sylva  and  Dillsboro',  lying 
between  the  Balsam  and  Cowee  Mountains,  and 
beyond  these,  Whittier  and  Bryson  City,  between 
the  Great  Smoky  and  Cowee  Mountains. 

From  any  of  these  villages  one  can  start  afoot  or 
otherwise  upon  delightful  trips  through  some  of  the 
finest  scenery  of  the  mountains,  and  from  two  of 
them,  Whittier  and  Bryson  City,  roads  lead  into  the 
Cherokee  Indian  Country  that  lies  on  the  lower 
slopes  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountain.   The  Indian 


THE   CHEROKEE   NATION  233 

Country  affords  one  a  plunge  into  the  wilderness  in 
more  senses  than  one,  for  not  only  does  one  find 
here  wild  scenery,  but  also  the  original  inhabit- 
ants, or  at  least  a  very  orderly  remnant  of  that 
mysterious  and  picturesque  race  that  before 
the  coming  of  the  white  man  roamed  these  soli- 
tudes. 

The  Indians  of  this  region  were  Cherokees,  and 
there  seem  to  have  been  several  tribes,  not  always 
on  amicable  terms  with  one  another,  judging  from 
the  number  of  arrow-heads  found  in  certain  fields 
near  Asheville.  The  country  about  Asheville  is  be- 
lieved to  have  been  a  common  hunting-ground  with- 
out permanent  settlements,  which  w^ould  account 
for  the  arrows-strewn  battle-fields  as  well  as  for  the 
dearth  of  Indian  names  in  that  section. 

The  white  man  when  he  came  did  not  enter  upon 
the  scene  in  a  way  to  inspire  confidence  in  the  red 
man,  who  finally  tried  to  hold  back  the  hand  of  des- 
tiny by  massacring  the  invaders.  This  resulted  in  an 
armed  force  entering  the  mountains  in  the  summer 
of  1779,  burning  the  villages,  killing  the  Indians,  and 
destroying  their  growing  crops. 

The  treatment  of  the  Cherokees  by  the  white  man 
affords  no  better  reading  than  the  treatment  of  the 
other  Indian  tribes  by  their  civilized  conquerors, 
and  finally  many  of  the  more  restless  spirits  among 
the  Indians  went  West  in  search  of  new  hunting- 
grounds.  Many,  however,  stayed  at  home  and  made 
the  best  of  the  new  order  of  things,  until  the  white 
conqueror   finally  decided    to    remove    the  whole 


234       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Cherokee  Nation  to  lands  set  aside  in  the  Indian 
Territory. 

Now,  it  is  one  thing  to  decide  to  move  an  Indian, 
and  another  thing  to  do  it.  You  have  first  to  catch 
your  Indian,  and  when  the  hour  struck  for  the  Chero- 
kees  to  go  West,  —  nothing  was  said  about  their 
growing  up  with  the  country,  —  lo,  the  band  had 
shrunk  to  half  its  size.  This  half  was  deported  and 
men  went  out  to  hunt  up  the  other  half.  Any  one 
who  thinks  he  can  find  an  Indian  hiding  in  the  wilds 
of  western  North  Carolina,  has  not  seen  the  country. 
He  might  as  well  spend  his  time  hunting  for  the  lost 
ten  tribes  of  Israel.  In  course  of  time  the  Indians 
returned  to  their  homes  and  went  on  peacefully  rais- 
ing corn,  grunting  emphatic  denials  to  any  suggestion 
to  go  West.  Finally,  the  large  territory  they  now 
own,  over  one  hundred  thousand  acres,  was  bought 
for  them  with  their  own  money  by  one  who  cham- 
pioned their  rights,  so  that  the  Indians  who  would 
not  go  West  now  occupy  some  of  the  most  pictur- 
esque and  beautiful  as  well  as  fertile  land  in  the 
North  Carolina  mountains.  They  are  known  as  the 
"Eastern  band  of  the  Cherokees,"  and  are  not  "re- 
servation Indians"  in  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the 
words,  since  they  own  their  land  by  right  of  purchase 
and  are  true  citizens  of  the  Republic  with  all  the 
privileges  of  citizenship.  These  Indians  are  as  law- 
abiding  as  their  white  neighbors,  more  so,  since  they 
have  never  distilled  unlawful  "moonshine,"  but 
have  only  drunk  it,  when  they  could  get  it,  until  the 
chief  of  the  tribe,  becoming  aware  of  the  devasta- 


THE  CHEROKEE  NATION  235 

tion  being  wrought  among  his  people  by  the  use  of 
whiskey,  did  that  which  might  have  done  honor  to 
any  civilized  leader.  Calling  a  council,  he  told  the 
people  that  the  only  way  to  save  their  nation  was 
to  abandon  the  use  of  whiskey  which  he  himself 
would  do  from  that  day,  whereupon  almost  the 
whole  tribe  joined  him,  and  although  some  fell  from 
grace  under  temptation,  there  was  a  marked  change 
for  the  better  from  that  time. 

The  easiest  way  to  get  into  the  Indian  Country  is 
from  Whittier  over  the  road  that  goes  up  the  Ocono- 
lufty  River  to  Cherokee,  the  principal  Indian  settle- 
ment, and  where  is  a  government  school.  Another 
and  more  picturesque  though  longer  way,  a  distance, 
if  one  remembers  rightly,  of  twenty-five  miles,  is  to 
go  from  Waynesville  through  the  Jonathan  Creek 
Valley  and  over  Soco  Mountain  by  one  of  the  most 
nearly  impassable  roads  in  the  mountains.  But  by 
going  this  way  one  enters  the  Indian  country  from 
the  primeval  forest,  which  has  a  certain  appropriate- 
ness. Jonathan  Creek  Valley,  deep,  and  so  narrow 
that  the  neighbors  say  the  cobblers  there  have  to 
sew  their  shoes  lengthwise,  lies  close  under  the  north 
end  of  the  high  Balsam  Mountain,  and  is  one  of 
those  quaint  survivals  of  other  days  that  makes  one 
feel,  upon  entering  it,  as  though  a  door  had  been  shut 
on  the  modern  world.  The  road  follows  up  through 
the  peaceful  valley,  past  the  picturesque  houses  with 
the  cornfields  showing  above  the  roofs,  and  the  gar- 
dens full  of  flowers,  past  the  high-wheeled  mills,  and 
across  the  charming  fords  banked  in  laurel  where 


236       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Jonathan  Creek  crosses  and  recrosses  the  road.  You 
go  on  and  up  the  mountain-side  where  the  forest  is 
stately,  still,  and  ancient,  and  where  underneath  the 
trees,  on  all  sides  as  far  as  one  can  see,  a  bed  of  dewy 
ferns  covers  the  earth,  the  green  fronds  nested  in 
shadows. 

The  road  ascends  through  the  ferns  and  you  notice 
that  Jonathan  Creek  has  become  a  little  rippling 
brook,  a  new-born  child  of  the  forest  and  the  clouds. 
When  you  get  to  the  gap  of  the  mountains  you  find 
in  the  "old  field"  there,  a  large  cold  spring,  the 
cradle  out  of  which  Jonathan  Creek  leaps  to  go 
dancing  down  the  mountain-side,  and  away  to  the 
turbid  plains  below. 

At  the  gap  you  see  Soco  Fall  and  hear  it  thunder 
down  the  lonely  cliff.  It  is  the  wild  beginning  of  Soco 
Creek  that  dashes  down  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  the  road  following  down  the  gorge  soon 
presents  such  an  appearance  that  you  adopt  the 
Indian  mode  of  progression,  leaving  the  driver  to 
survive  or  perish  as  fate  ordains.  To  cross  an  In- 
dian's conception  of  a  footbridge  over  the  torrent 
dashing  uproariously  against  the  boulders  that 
strew  its  course  is  only  one  degree  better  than  trying 
to  cross  the  washed-out  fords  in  a  carriage.  Yet 
nothing  can  dim  your  pleasure  in  the  splendid  fresh- 
ness and  mystery  of  the  shadowy  gorge  where  the 
water  shouts  in  a  thousand  voices,  for  you  are  in  the 
Indian  Country  where  nature  seems  a  little  wilder 
and  more  secret.  The  writhing  limbs  and  deep-green 
foliage  of  monster  rhododendrons  crowd  the  banks. 


THE  CHEROKEE  NATION  237 

Above  them  tower  dark  hemlocks.  It  is  twilight  in 
the  gorge,  although  the  sun  shines  brightly  on  the 
tree-tops. 

Once  in  a  while  you  get  a  glimpse  of  noiseless  forms 
flitting  through  the  forest.  But  you  are  not  afraid, 
for  the  Indians  long  ago  laid  aside  their  tomahawks 
and  arrows,  along  with  their  feathers  and  war-paint. 
They  are  watching  us  out  of  curiosity,  and  their 
presence  adds  the  one  needed  touch  to  the  romance 
of  the  road.  As  we  get  lower  down,  a  lonely,  neat- 
looking  house  occasionally  stands  near  the  rushing 
river,  tightly  closed  and  looking  as  though  unin- 
habited, though  your  driver  assures  you  that  black 
eyes  are  peering  at  you  through  the  holes  between 
the  logs.  But  when  you  meet  Big  Witch  carrying 
his  fish  spear  and  clad  all  in  shop-made  clothes,  and 
two  Indian  women  dressed  in  calico,  each  carrying 
what  should  be  a  pappoose,  but  is  only  a  little  brown 
baby  in  a  pink  frock  just  like  any  other  baby,  — 
when  this  happens,  your  romantic  fancies  take  flight 
like  a  flock  of  startled  birds.  At  the  government 
school,  well  placed  on  a  slope  near  the  Oconolufty 
River,  some  two  hundred  young  Indians  are  learn- 
ing the  white  man's  way  of  life,  boys  and  girls  in 
about  equal  numbers. 

The  Cherokee  is  not  a  noble  red  man  in  appear- 
ance, having  the  flat,  broad  type  of  face  with  wide- 
apart  eyes,  instead  of  the  aquiline  features  of  the 
wooden  warrior  that  used  to  stand  outside  the  to- 
bacco-shops. The  Indians  cultivate  the  land,  raise  a 
few  horses  and  cattle,  make  soapstone  pipes  to  sell 


238       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

to  tourists,  and  weave  baskets.  Their  lack  of  pro- 
gress is  not  due  to  want  of  natural  gifts  we  were  told 
at  the  school.  They  can,  if  they  would,  but  they  are 
utterly  wanting  in  the  first  great  incentive  to  work, 
a  love  of  acquisition.  The  negro  soon  develops  a 
desire  to  possess  things,  the  Cherokee  never.  Per- 
haps he  is  the  true  philosopher,  and  seeing  too  far 
ahead  asks,  "What  is  the  use?" 

The  Indian  Country  lies  in  a  cul-de-sac  between 
the  Balsams  and  the  Smokies,  two  of  the  grandest 
ranges  in  the  Appalachians,  and  through  it  flows 
the  Oconolufty  River,  swift,  broad,  and  clear  as 
crystal,  its  bed  strewn  with  boulders,  large  trees 
guarding  its  banks,  and  rhododendrons  dipping  to 
the  water.  This  romantic  stream  being  too  swift  for 
a  "  bench  "  is  spanned  by  air-line  bridges,  the  thought 
of  crossing  which  chills  the  blood.  In  its  calmer 
reaches,  one  sees  the  long  dugout  canoes  of  the  Indi- 
ans tied  to  the  trees  along  the  bank,  or  perchance  an 
Indian  girl  crossing  the  river  standing  securely  at 
the  bow  of  the  craft  and  paddling  against  the  cur- 
rent. 


XXIII 

THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS 

IS  it  the  name,  or  the  Hterary  uses  of  the  last  few 
years,  that  has  invested  the  Smoky  Mountains 
with  that  feeUng  of  mystery  that  seems  always  to 
hang  about  them?  Those  who  have  seen  them  rising 
in  ghost-like  beauty  high  against  the  western  sky 
need,  however,  no  explanation  of  their  power  over 
the  mind.  One  approaches  them  with  a  peculiar 
feeling  of  anticipation,  a  feeling  almost  reverential, 
as  though  about  to  unveil  some  great  mystery.  One 
approaches  them  also  with  a  little  inner  trepidation, 
they  have  always  seemed  so  far  away,  so  delicately 
blue  and  ethereal,  or  else  as  their  name  suggests 
they  have  been  to  the  imagination  pale  emanations 
from  a  burning  world,  —  suppose  that  closer  ac- 
quaintance with  them  should  dispel  a  cherished 
illusion! 

But  have  no  fear.  These  mountains  possess  a 
double  personality.  The  dreamlike  slopes  you  have 
known  and  loved  will  remain,  only  there  will  be 
added  to  the  domain  of  your  memory  another  Smoky 
Mountain  Range,  the  possession  of  which  is  also  a 
rare  pleasure.  These  new  mountains,  with  their 
grand  trees  and  wide  spaces,  their  freshness  and 
fragrance,  their  dangerous  cliffs,  steep  slopes,  and 
deep  ravines,  their  rushing  streams  and  their  almost 


240       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

Impenetrable  wlldness,  become  a  refuge,  —  glorious 
heights  where  you  wander  in  imagination  when 
weary  of  the  dust  of  the  world. 

For  the  Smoky  Mountains  are  at  once  the  most 
ethereal  and  the  most  substantial  of  created  things, 
ethereal  when  you  see  them  exquisitely  blue  or 
pearly  white  phantoms  in  the  containing  heavens, 
tremendous  realities  when  you  are  among  their  wild 
cliffs  and  inclosed  by  their  primeval  forests. 

Unlike  the  Blue  Ridge,  the  Smoky  Mountains  do 
not  hold  out  inviting  levels  for  man's  occupation. 
They  sweep  in  steep  slopes  up  from  both  sides  to  a 
narrow  summit,  in  places  a  mere  knife-edge  ridge, 
and  their  flanks  are  set  with  precipices,  ravines,  and 
deep  moist  coves  out  of  which  rise  large  forest  trees. 
They  are  yet  the  home  of  the  wild  animals  that  have 
been  driven  from  most  other  parts  of  the  mountains, 
and  their  rhododendron  and  laurel  labyrinths  are  so 
dense  and  so  extensive  that  to  get  lost  in  them  may 
mean  destruction.  Their  feet  lie  in  the  pleasant  val- 
leys, their  heads  in  the  clouds.  For  a  distance  of 
over  fifty  miles  the  Tennessee  and  North  Carolina 
state  line  runs  along  the  crest  of  the  Great  Smoky 
Mountains  without  crossing  a  gap  below  five  thou- 
sand feet  high,  while  it  surmounts  Clingman  Dome, 
Mount  Guyot,  and  other  summits  at  an  elevation 
above  six  thousand  feet.  Below,  these  mountains 
are  covered  with  the  finest  hardwood  trees  left  in  the 
United  States;  above,  they  are  wrapped  in  spruce 
and  balsam  fir,  a  dark  unbroken  forest  of  which 
covers  all  but  the  very  tops.  For  like  the  summits  of 


A   GOOD   FOOT-BRIDGE 


THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS    241 

all  the  highest  mountains,  these  too  are  bare,  —  no 
matter  how  small  the  opening  may  be,  the  moun- 
tain-top is  free. 

But  while  there  are  no  large  settlements  and  few 
signs  of  the  devastation  that  follows  the  coming  of 
man,  the  long  line  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains 
is  not  uninhabited.  The  valleys  that  run  up  into  the 
mountains  hold  little  nests  of  houses,  and  here  and 
there,  far  up  on  the  mountain-side,  in  a  cove  or  on  a 
fertile  "bench,"  one  may  find  a  clearing  with  its 
lonely  cabin  and  its  cornfield,  to  be  reached  only  by 
a  trail  through  the  forest. 

The  Great  Smokies  yet  remain,  as  a  whole,  the 
most  inaccessible  part  of  the  mountain  region.  No 
road  crosses  them,  few  paths  penetrate  into  their 
fastnesses.  To  go  to  any  of  the  high  peaks  is  an 
arduous  climb  requiring  a  guide.  And  yet  it  is  not 
difficult  to  ascend  into  their  forests  far  enough  to  get 
a  sense  of  the  glory  of  the  heights. 

Being  at  Cherokee,  in  the  Indian  country.  Instead 
of  following  the  road  down  the  Oconolufty  River 
to  the  railroad,  it  is  far  wiser  to  go  up  it  and  thereby 
get  into  the  very  heart  of  the  Smokies.  As  you  as- 
cend the  narrowing  valley,  you  have  a  feeling  of 
exhilaration,  an  increasing  sense  of  splendid  freedom, 
with  which  the  increasing  altitude  may  have  some- 
thing to  do.  The  many  streams,  that  come  hurr>'ing 
down  from  their  birth  chambers  in  the  clouds,  cross 
the  road  to  enter  the  river.  Hence  there  are  fords, 
beautiful  shady  places  under  the  trees  and  the  vine- 
draped  bushes.   And  then  the  way  becomes  so  nar- 


242       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

row  that  there  is  not  room  for  both  road  and  river, 
and  the  two,  for  some  distance,  become  one,  the  river 
by  this  time  having  grown  shallow  enough  to  make 
such  a  liberty  possible.  This  often  happens  in  the 
mountains,  and  a  stranger,  seeing  you  slowly  van- 
ishing up  a  river  with  no  apparent  exit,  might  con- 
clude that  you  had  lost,  not  only  your  way  but  your 
senses.  And  you  do  feel  a  little  as  though  you  had 
taken  leave  of  the  ordinary  ways  of  life  and  entered 
into  a  sort  of  enchanted  world  as  you  splash  along 
through  a  tunnel  roofed  by  tree-tops  and  paved  with 
flashing  water,  the  leafy  walls  embroidered  with  the 
strong,  dark  lines  and  white  flower  clusters  of  the 
Rhododendron  maximum. 

These  roadways  in  the  rivers,  these  entrancing 
halls  paved  with  silver,  and  walled  with  chryso- 
prase,  topaz,  and  emerald,  are  among  the  most  cher- 
ished memories  of  the  mountains.  There  is  such  a 
road  —  let  us  see  —  in  the  "Plumtree  Country," 
where,  in  the  springtime,  the  silver-floored  tunnel  is 
roofed  with  the  delicate  colors  of  coming  leaves,  and 
out  of  which  you  pass  into  a  world  radiant  with  plum 
blossoms,  and  where  the  road,  no  longer  paved  w4th 
silver,  is  bright  red  and  overhung  with  blossoming 
trees.  Clouds  of  airy  white  flowers  float  above  you 
and  about  you,  pouring  intoxicating  fragrance  into 
the  air  you  breathe,  —  and  what  is  more  inebriating 
than  the  breath  of  the  wild  plum !  Later  in  the  sea- 
son bright  red  plums  replace  the  flowers,  giving 
forth  a  spicy  and  joyous  odor  that  tempts  you  to 
taste  again  and  again  the  sparkling  juices.  The  road 


THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS    243 

is  fairly  covered  with  the  bounty  of  the  tree.  The 
path  you  travel  is  red  with  plums. 

One  remembers  another  union  of  road  and  river 
near  the  headwaters  of  the  Linville,  and  alongside 
which  a  footpath  has  been  cut  in  the  laurel.  There 
used  to  be  a  short  one  near  Traumfest,  where  the 
overarching  bushes  were  twined  with  the  clematis 
that  bears  large  pink,  urn-shaped  flowers,  and  — 
but  enough,  one  could  recall  a  bookful  about  the 
fords  and  riverbed  roads  of  the  mountains. 

When  you  get  to  where  the  shining  Oconolufty 
forks,  you  take  the  left-hand  "prong"  and  goon 
until  the  next  fork  when  you  turn  to  the  right,  the 
stream  becoming  ever  wilder  and  narrower  and,  if 
possible,  more  sparkling.  The  farther  you  go  the 
more  difficult  the  road  becomes.  There  are  few  people 
living  as  far  as  this,  for  you  have  gone  beyond  the 
Indian  boundary  and  are  close  to  the  uninhabited 
mountain.  Yet  here  one's  artist  friend  got  one  of  her 
loveliest  pictures  composed  of  a  long,  gray  old  house, 
pale-blue  cabbages,  bright  flowers,  and  mountains 
so  divinely  blue  as  to  make  the  senses  swim. 

When  you  reach  "Jim  Mac's  place,"  you  stop,  for 
this  is  the  end  of  what  has  ceased  to  deserve  the  name 
of  road.  There  is  nothing  beyond  but  the  steeply 
rising  mountain  with  its  primeval  forest,  where  the 
red  deer  and  the  brown  bear  yet  roam,  and  the  pan- 
ther and  the  wildcat  make  their  home.  Big  trout 
lie  hid  in  the  bright  waters  of  Laurel  Fork  that  comes 
leaping  down  icy  cold  from  its  embowering  springs 
three  thousand  feet  above  your  head.  At  Jim  Mac's 


244       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

one  hears  thrilling  tales  of  fisherman's  luck  and 
hunter's  adventures,  while  one  young  man  reluct- 
antly admits  that  he  never  did  bear-hunt,  but  has 
only  squirrel-hunted. 

And  from  Jim  Mac's  you  go  to  the  very  top  of  the 
mountain,  there  where  you  step  on  the  Tennessee 
line  without  knowing  it.  Not  to  one  of  those  grand 
fir-clad  summits  that  few  people  reach,  but  to  a  gap 
at  an  elevation  of  some  fifty-five  hundred  feet  lying 
on  the  ridge  of  the  Smokies  somewhere  between 
Clingman's  Dome  and  Mount  Guyot,  two  of  the 
great  mountains  of  the  range,  Clingman  having 
contended  long  and  ardently  with  Mount  Mitchell 
for  the  honor  of  being  the  highest  mountain  in  the 
East. 

We  follow  an  obscure  trail  that  our  guide  says  in 
wartime  was  a  sort  of  road  across  the  mountains, 
and  that  it  passed  near  an  alum  mine  where  during 
those  troublous  times  the  women  got  something  to 
set  the  dyes  of  their  homespun  clothes.  The  horses 
we  ride  were  born  and  bred  in  the  mountains,  the 
only  kind  of  horse  one  ought  to  ride  here,  for  he 
knows  the  ways  of  the  woods  and  will  go  over  a  log 
or  under  it,  climb,  one  is  tempted  to  say,  anything 
but  a  tree,  take  the  situation  philosophically  if  he 
falls  down  or  you  fall  off,  get  up  himself,  or,  if  he 
cannot,  wait  patiently  for  help,  and  when  it  comes 
he  will  assist  rather  than  hinder  by  his  efforts.  This 
horse  that  never  gets  nervous  or  frightened  is  intel- 
ligent and  companionable  to  a  high  degree,  the 
mountain  horses  often  seeming  to  share  the  kindly 


THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS    245 

nature  of  the  people  with  whom  they  arc  Intimately 
associated  in  all  kinds  of  work,  from  ploughing  a 
furrow  or  working  a  sorghum  press  to  hauling  logs 
over  almost  impassable  roads  or  bearing  their  owners 
over  almost  impassable  trails. 

The  way  up  the  mountain  is  now  enchanting  in 
its  perfection  of  wildness.  Oaks  tower  above  you  as 
you  go,  and  tall  locusts  shade  you,  a  giant  chestnut 
here,  a  lordly  cherry  there,  a  stately  ash,  a  royal 
tulip  tree,  mammoth  hemlocks,  standing  where  they 
please,  all  remind  you  that  this  is  a  primeval  forest, 
planted  by  nature  and  by  her  husbanded  through 
the  millenniums.  Here,  too,  along  the  cliffs  and  the 
streams,  the  rose-bay,  splendid  in  the  literal  meaning 
of  the  word,  adds  to  the  shining  of  its  polished  leaves 
that  of  regal  flower  masses,  for  up  here  it  is  yet  in 
bloom,  although  the  time  is  August.  These  noble 
rhododendrons,  that  blossom  with  a  freedom  and  a 
loveliness  of  color  that  belong  with  these  vast  sky- 
domed  spaces,  sometimes  are  not  purple  at  all,  but  a 
clear  bright  rose-color  seldom  seen  at  lower  levels. 

In  the  forest  where  the  rocks  are  hidden  from  view 
under  a  thick  carpet  of  moss,  your  horse  wades  knee- 
deep  in  luscious  ferns,  or  his  hoofs  sink  out  of  sight 
in  tender  oxalls  leaves  whose  crowding  flowers  em- 
broider a  rosy  and  white  design  over  the  green  floor. 
You  pass  Into  a  parklike  grove  of  great  beech  trees, 
still  and  sw^eet.  You  see  a  large  turkey  on  the  top- 
most limb  of  a  dead  tree  suddenly  expand  his  wings 
and  float  away  with  incredible  speed  and  lightness. 
A  domestic  turkey  walking  on  the  ground  gives  no 


246       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

hint  of  the  almost  ethereal  lightness  with  which  the 
wild  bird  projects  himself  into  and  through  the  air. 

As  your  body  rises  your  spirits  also  mount.  All 
the  turmoil  of  mistaken  humanity  is  down  below 
those  billowing  forests  that  sweep  into  bottomless 
blue  abysses  of  which  you  catch  glimpses  from  some 
clifTside.  The  clean,  cool  air  is  filled  with  tree  odors, 
about  you  the  wild  denizens  of  these  untroubled 
heights  are  roaming  and,  it  may  be,  unseen,  are 
watching  you  and  wondering.  A  crackle  of  twigs  — 
a  light  crashing  noise  in  the  laurel  —  what  is  it? 

The  shadows  among  the  trees  are  intensely  blue, 
overhead  white  clouds  sail  in  the  boundless  heavens, 
down  the  mossy  cliffs  streams  leap  like  naiads  newly 
escaped  from  some  cavern  of  eternity.  Where  the 
view  opens,  fir-clad  summits  roll  away  like  high 
green  seas,  to  be  transformed  in  the  distance  into 
that  spirit-like  semblance  of  mountains  that  seem  to 
belong,  not  on  earth,  but  to  the  realm  of  the  sky. 

In  a  high-lying  primeval  forest  one  is  often  stirred 
by  what  might  be  called  primeval  feelings.  Out  of 
the  solitudes  come  revelations.  You  look  at  a  tree, 
grand,  alone,  touching  as  it  were  both  earth  and 
heaven,  and  it  awakens  in  you  strong  emotion. 
What  is  this  tree  that  thus  can  move  you?  As  you 
stand  questioning,  a  light  flashes  through  your  con- 
sciousness.  The  forest  has  answered. 

From  this  gap  one  gets  no  extensive  outlook;  we 
cannot  see  Clingman  Dome,  that  lacks  only  about 
fifty  feet  of  being  as  high  as  Mount  Mitchell,  nor 
Mount  Guyot,  nor  any  other  of  the  high  peaks  of 


THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS    247 

the  Smokies ;  nevertheless  we  feel  that  we  know  the 
mountains,  lacking  only  the  supreme  pleasure  of 
traversing  those  balsam  groves  that  cover  the  peaks, 
A  new  Smoky  Mountain,  strong  and  glorious,  pro- 
jects itself  into  the  imagination  alongside  the  wraith- 
like shapes  of  those  other  Smoky  Mountains  one  has 
so  long  known  and  loved.  And  over  these  splendid 
slopes,  one  sees  in  imagination  the  protecting  arm  of 
the  new  national  park  reach  out,  as  it  soon  will,  to 
save  them  forever  from  the  power  of  the  destroyer. 


XXIV 

HIGHLANDS 

THERE  is  joy  also  in  the  valleys.  From  them 
you  look  up  to  the  mountains  transfigured  by  a 
light  that  crowns  them  in  beauty.  In  the  valleys  are 
the  homes  of  the  people,  the  leafy  inclosing  hills,  and 
the  winding  roads,  following  which  a  new  picture  un- 
folds each  moment  as  you  pass  along. 

Leaving  Whittier  and  facing  towards  the  Blue 
Ridge,  one  may  follow  the  valleys  across  the  plateau 
from  one  bordering  range  to  the  other.  When  you 
come  to  the  beautiful  Cullowhee  Valley,  you  ought 
to  be  going  the  other  way,  however,  for  the  Balsam 
Mountains,  lying  so  splendidly  against  the  sky,  are 
behind  you,  and  you  are  constantly  looking  back  as 
the  valley  opens  and  shuts  and  those  noble  heights 
come  and  go. 

And  what  does  one  now  see  beyond  the  Balsams? 
—  those  spirit-like  forms  high  in  the  sky?  It  is  the 
line  of  the  Smoky  Mountains,  rehabilitated  since  we 
left  them,  and  restored  to  their  wonted  place  in  the 
heavens.  As  the  road  winds  on  and  up,  you  turn  to 
see  again  and  yet  again  the  deep-toned  Balsams  and 
that  line  of  dream  mountains  that  grows  higher  as 
you  ascend. 

"It's  been  heavy  draughting  all  the  evening." 
These  words  from  your  driver  bring  your  thoughts 


HIGHLANDS  249 

down  to  the  road  which,  from  recent  rains  and  the 
passing  of  tanbark  wagons,  is,  indeed,  as  he  puts  it, 
"terribly  gouted  out."  But  you  are  now  up  the 
mountain  and  crossing  the  gap  where,  at  the  turn  in 
the  road,  that  long  white  waterfall  comes  gliding 
down  the  slanting  cliff,  and  beyond  it  in  the  distance 
the  Balsam  Mountains  rise,  purple,  indigo  blue,  and 
deep  green  against  a  cloudy  sky. 

Just  beyond  here  you  get  some  one  to  guide  you  a 
mile  or  two  along  a  wild  ravine  where  the  jack-vine 
grows,  to  the  upper  falls  of  the  Tuckasegee,  one  of 
the  grandest  falls  in  the  mountains,  the  thunder  of 
which  is  heard  for  a  long  distance.  Although  not  so 
high  as  the  other  cascade  seen  from  the  road,  it  is 
far  more  impressive,  for  the  much  wider  sheet  of 
water  leaps  over  a  vertical  cliff  bordered  on  either 
side  with  stern  walls  of  granite.  Striking  a  project- 
ing ledge  it  separates  into  two  parts  to  leap  again,  a 
mass  of  foam,  to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine. 

It  is  cool  and  sweet  in  the  spray  of  the  thundering 
waters  and  you  reluctantly  turn  back  and  climb  out 
of  the  shadowy  gorge  where  the  tall  trees  are  draped 
in  vines,  among  them  the  great  jack- vine  whose 
cables  sagging  heavily  from  the  tree-tops  produce  a 
weird  effect  in  the  semi-twilight  of  the  gorge.  Nothing 
in  the  forest  is  more  suggestive  of  tropical  growths 
than  these  enormous  vines  with  their  large  leaves, 
the  bark  peeling  in  tatters  from  the  stem  that  when 
dead  separates  for  its  whole  length  into  flat  ribbons, 
black  and  strange-looking. 

Out  of  the  dark  gorge,  up  to  the  bright  sunlight 


250       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

of  the  road  you  climb,  and  continuing  on  your  way, 
the  cHffs  that  distinguish  the  country  about  High- 
lands soon  begin  to  appear  above  the  trees.  Up  you 
mount,  now  through  a  forest  fragrant  with  hemlock 
and  white  azalea,  now  over  cool,  hurrying  streams, 
now  close  to  damp  cliffs  with  little  plants  in  the 
crevices,  the  way  darkened  by  the  hemlock  trees 
that  grow  so  freely  here,  on  and  up,  finally  to  attain 
the  very  summit  of  the  Blue  Ridge  —  and  find  your- 
self at  Highlands. 

Highlands,  nearly  four  thousand  feet  high,  lies  on 
one  of  those  tablelands  of  the  Blue  Ridge  that  seem 
to  have  been  designed  for  the  occupation  of  man. 
But  it  differs  from  all  other  parts  of  the  Blue  Ridge 
plateau,  and  indeed  of  the  whole  Appalachian  uplift, 
in  the  tremendous  precipices  that  all  but  surround 
it,  seeming  to  lift  it  up  and  hold  it  aloft.  For  about 
Highlands  are  the  grandest  cliffs  this  side  the  Rocky 
Mountains. 

When  at  Highlands,  one  is  always  conscious  of 
being  in  a  high  place,  of  inhabiting,  as  it  were,  the 
"Land  of  the  Sky."  From  the  village  itself,  which 
lies  in  about  the  centre  of  the  tableland,  there  is  no 
extensive  view,  only  that  ever-present  sense  of  being 
up  high  and  out  in  the  sky.  But  just  out  of  the  village 
one  discovers  the  truth;  there  is  no  grander  scenery 
in  this  part  of  the  world  than  that  immediately 
surrounding  Highlands.  And  here,  as  in  so  many 
places  in  these  mountains,  one  has  that  inner  vision 
of  beauty  that  man  alone  can  add  to  a  landscape. 
One  sees  in  imagination  the  charms  of  nature  en- 


HIGHLANDS  251 

hanced  by  those  human  touches  that  send  us  sight- 
seeing to  foreign  lands.  Even  in  Italy,  away  from 
the  seacoast  there  is  nothing  in  the  way  of  natural 
scenery  more  beautiful  than  our  own  Southern 
mountains,  we  lacking  only  that  instinctive  feeling 
for  the  beautiful  that  makes  every  son  of  that  fair 
land  build  his  house  with  pleasing  lines  and  place  it 
sympathetically  in  the  landscape,  the  row  of  columns, 
the  arcade,  the  terrace,  the  stone  wall,  the  statue, 
put,  as  by  inspiration,  each  in  its  perfect  place. 

Nowhere  in  the  mountains  does  one  find  more 
beautiful  natural  growths  than  at  Highlands,  where 
the  laurel  and  rhododendron  grow  to  trees  and  flam- 
ing azaleas  set  whole  mountain-sides  ablaze,  and 
here  one  remembers  finding  wild  lilies-of-the-valley. 
But  that  which  characterizes  the  scenery  of  this 
region,  separating  it  distinctly  from  the  rest  of  the 
mountains,  is  the  presence  of  the  many  bare  preci- 
pices that  on  all  sides  drop  into  unseen  abysses,  the 
most  terrible  of  all  being  the  long  wall  of  Whiteside 
Mountain,  that  makes  a  sheer  descent  of  fifteen 
hundred  feet  and  has  the  distinction  of  being  the 
grandest  precipice  this  side  the  Rockies.  Yet  even 
these  cliffs  cannot  give  a  cruel  aspect  to  the  country, 
because  over  all  their  savage  tops  hang  delicate  vines 
and  dainty  shrubs.  Smiling  flowers  of  the  rose-bay 
look  fearlessly  over  the  edge  and  the  white  lace  of  the 
fringe-bush  sheds  its  perfume  down  the  stern  front 
of  the  rock. 

The  nearest  point  of  view  at  Highlands  is  perhaps 
Black  Rock,  that  drops  in  a  sheer  wall  nearly  a 


252       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

thousand  feet  Into  Horse  Cove,  and  from  whose  rim 
one  looks  into  a  wide  abyss  floored  with  tree-tops, 
and  beyond  this  to  mountains  billowing  away  as  far 
as  one  can  see.  At  a  point  on  the  brow  of  the  preci- 
pice, far  in  from  the  road  and  surrounded  by  flowers 
that  have  escaped  from  its  gardens,  stands  a  house  as 
though  on  guard,  the  first  house  of  importance  in 
this  region,  although  many  pleasant  homes  have 
since  appeared.  It  was  built  by  Captain  S.  P.  Rav- 
enel,  of  Charleston,  who  came  about  a  generation 
ago  when  life  was  yet  so  primitive  that  lumber  had 
to  be  carted  a  distance  of  more  than  thirty  miles 
up  the  mountains.  The  dining-room  floor,  made  of 
alternate  strips  of  black  walnut  and  oak,  reminds  us 
that  walnut  trees  were  not  uncommon  in  this  region 
at  the  time  the  house  was  built.  In  the  charming  wil- 
derness the  Ravenel  family  not  only  made  a  beauti- 
ful summer  home  for  themselves,  but,  through  their 
interest  in  the  people  about  them,  they  stamped  a 
lasting  impress  upon  the  community.  For  besides 
building  roads  and  making  other  civic  improvements, 
they  built  a  church,  and  by  their  contact  with  the 
native  people  brought  inspiration  and  hope  to  many 
a  longing  heart,  as  well  as  a  knowledge  of  those  re- 
finements of  life  which  are  man's  latest  and  best 
inheritance. 

A  favorite  walk  from  Highlands  is  to  the  top  of 
charming,  flower-graced  Satulah  that  rises  some- 
thing less  than  a  thousand  feet  above  Highlands, 
and  where  one  gets  an  open  view  in  all  directions. 
The  granite  walls  of  Whiteside,  sheer  and  terrible, 


HIGHLANDS  253 

or  else  veiled  In  a  mistry  blue  atmosphere,  sharp 
Chimney  Top  to  the  right  of  it  and  the  bold  form  of 
Shortoff  to  the  left,  rise  conspicuously  above  the 
countless  mountains  that  reach  away  to  the  far  Bal- 
sam and  Pisgah  Ranges,  while  against  the  western 
sky  is  seen  the  ever-beautiful  form  of  the  Nantahala 
Range.  Turning  now  towards  the  south,  away  from 
the  tumultuous  sea  of  the  high  mountains,  one  looks 
off  over  the  receding  levels  of  Georgia,  out  of  which 
rises  the  calm  and  beautiful  form  of  the  Rabun  Bald, 
lending  a  great  sense  of  peace  to  the  landscape. 

The  road  from  Highlands  to  Whiteside  Mountain 
winds  along  through  a  thin  forest  and  gives  no  hint 
of  what  is  coming  until  you  reach  the  "bench"  of 
the  mountain,  where  all  of  a  sudden  the  land  drops 
in  a  vertical  wall  to  the  valley  below.  From  this 
bench  the  mountain-top  rises  precipitously  above 
your  head,  the  path  up  through  the  trees  and  bushes 
being  very  steep,  like  a  flight  of  steps  in  places;  but 
it  is  also  very  sweet,  and  you  stop  every  few  mo- 
ments to  gather  a  flower,  inhale  the  fragrance  of 
some  blossoming  bush,  and  look  ofT  at  the  mountains 
lying  far  away. 

The  top  of  the  mountain,  although  somewhat  less 
than  five  thousand  feet  in  elevation,  gives  one  a 
feeling  of  being  very  high  above  the  earth.  For  the 
air  is  singularly  stimulating,  and  the  rocks  are  cov- 
ered with  the  growths  of  high  places,  among  them 
"heather,"  as  the  people  call  the  delightful  little 
evergreen  Dendrium  buxifolium,  and  the  hardwood 
trees  through  which  the  path  leads  are  dwarfed  and 


254       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

twisted,  like  trees  that  have  had  to  battle  with  the 
elements  for  life. 

To  go  to  the  edge  and  look  directly  down  requires 
a  steady  head  and  should  be  done  with  caution,  for 
the  rock  is  bare  and  polished,  and  but  for  a  ledge 
where  bushes  grow,  a  ledge  scarcely  noticeable  a 
short  distance  away,  it  resembles,  as  some  one  has 
said,  a  stupendous  petrified  waterfall.  In  some  lights 
this  appalling  front  gleams  white  as  snow,  which  has 
given  the  mountain  its  name.  The  characteristic 
feature  of  the  scenery  from  Whiteside  is  the  up- 
springing  cliffs  of  the  nearer  mountains,  impressive 
walls  that  would  be  more  terrible  if  those  close  to 
you  were  not  wreathed  in  verdure,  and  the  more  dis- 
tant ones  softened  by  the  tender  lights  and  the  cloud 
mists  that  so  often  lie  about  them,  although  there 
are  clear,  hard  days  when  the  cliffs  look  savage 
enough. 

And  there  are  times  when  Whiteside  Mountain 
becomes  the  theatre  of  a  scene  so  terrific  that  to  wit- 
ness it  is  a  landmark  in  one's  life.  It  was  on  a  cloud- 
less summer  day  that  one  walked  along  the  top  of 
Whiteside  far  enough  to  see  the  cliffs  of  the  Devil's 
Court-House,  as  the  turret-like  northern  end  of  the 
mountain  is  called.  One  remembers  admiring  the 
little  cloud  that  suddenly  appeared  in  the  intense 
blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  merry  massing  of  white 
clouds  that  came  rolling  sweetly  up  over  the  edge 
of  the  horizon.  You  started  to  descend  because  of 
them,  but  finally  decided  that  they  were  going 
around.  You  did  not  know  that  no  cloud  ever  goes 


THE    DEVIL  S    COURT-HOUSE 


HIGHLANDS  255 

around  Whiteside.  A  great  bird  dropped  suddenly 
out  of  the  sky  with  half-closed  wings  and  disap- 
peared in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks.  There  was  something 
about  the  arrow-like  descent  of  that  bird  into  the 
mountain  that  made  you  feel  uneasy  and  you  hurried 
down,  but  before  you  got  to  the  bench,  the  storm 
was  muttering  and  clouds  were  boiling  over  the 
whole  sky. 

It  seemed  better  now  to  wait  until  the  storm  was 
over  than  to  risk  driving  through  the  woods.  What 
happened  next  is  difficult  to  describe.  When  the 
storm  struck,  you  found  yourself  holding  your  large 
black  horse  by  the  halter,  the  mountain  woman  who 
had  brought  you  there  clinging  to  the  other  horse. 
At  each  crash  of  thunder  the  frightened  animals 
plunged  and  reared,  but  when  the  one  you  held  came 
down,  it  laid  its  quivering  nostrils  against  your 
cheek,  as  though  begging  forgiveness  and  imploring 
you  to  save  it.  The  lightning  seemed  pouring  out  of 
the  clouds  as  from  some  devil's  caldron.  At  each 
deafening  explosion  it  was  seen  darting  in  all  direc- 
tions over  the  stony  floor.  Electrical  fire  fell  about 
us  like  rain.  The  metal  parts  of  the  carriage  were 
struck,  strange  electrical  thrills  coursed  through  our 
nerv-es.  Rain  fell  in  torrents  icy  cold,  while  an  icy 
wind  drove  it  against  us  in  lines  almost  parallel  to 
the  earth,  and  threatened  to  sweep  us  over  the  cliff. 
It  would  have  been  dark  almost  as  night  but  for  the 
constant  play  of  the  pallid  lightning.  The  face  of  the 
woman  who,  a  little  way  off  was  clinging  to  her  horse, 
was   ghastly  green    in    color;  —  "Are  we  dying?" 


256       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

she  sobbed  —  it  seemed  we  were,  but  you  put  on  as 
hopeful  a  front  as  possible  to  help  her.  And  then  — 
the  whole  earth  seemed  shattered  to  pieces,  the 
woman  and  her  horse  fell  as  though  shot,  and  lights 
played  about  them  on  the  rock. 

Heaven  knows  how  long  it  lasted.  It  seemed 
hours.  It  vanished  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  came, 
and  when  the  sun  burst  out  we  discovered  we  were 
yet  alive,  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  our  teeth  chat- 
tering with  cold  and  fright.  The  woman  and  her 
horse  had  struggled  to  their  feet,  she  with  legs  so 
numb  that  she  could  scarcely  stand  and  the  horse 
quivering  in  every  muscle.  We  managed  to  attach 
the  trembling  animals  to  the  carriage,  which,  though 
repeatedly  struck,  had  not  been  destroyed,  and  get 
back  to  Highlands.  It  was  weeks  before  one  fully 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  adventure,  and  one 
wonders  if  the  poor  woman  and  the  horse  she  held 
ever  fully  recovered. 

It  was  the  worst  electrical  storm  known  for  years, 
and  why  we  chose  that  particular  day  to  go  to  White- 
side with  its  Devil's  Court-House  who  can  say? 
For  from  the  bench  of  Whiteside  the  native  people, 
those  who  live  in  that  region,  flee  in  terror  at  the 
slightest  sign  of  an  approaching  storm.  It  is  a  noted 
battle-ground.  To  stand  in  the  midst  of  a  conflict  of 
the  gods  where  lightning  bolts  are  the  weapons  is  an 
experience  one  would  not  dare  to  court,  but  having 
survived  it,  it  becomes  one  of  those  great  headlands 
in  life  the  existence  of  which  is  worth  whatever  may 
have  been  the  cost  of  discovering  them. 


HIGHLANDS  257 

It  is  the  hardness  of  the  massive  granite  in  this 
region  which  has  preserved  the  great  upright  cliffs 
through  the  ages,  and  because  of  the  hard  and  pre- 
cipitous nature  of  the  rocks,  this  part  of  the  country 
is  gemmed  with  waterfalls,  of  which  there  are  half  a 
hundred  within  a  few  miles  of  Highlands,  each  one 
worth  a  visit. 

CharsLcteristic  of  Highlands  are  the  many  roads 
that  go  from  it  as  a  centre,  or,  perhaps  one  should 
say,  go  towards  it,  for  here  all  roads  lead  to  High- 
lands, that  is,  all  upward  roads.  Our  favorite  in  by- 
gone days  was  perhaps  the  "Old  Franklin  Road," 
where  the  Nantahala  lay  so  sweetly  in  the  sky  before 
us  as  we  went.  It  was  hard  to  get  over  the  Old 
Franklin  Road  even  then,  and  now  it  is  probably  all 
gone,  the  new  road  having  taken  its  place. 

But  whether  one  goes  to  Franklin  by  the  old  road 
or  the  new,  there  is  to  be  seen  that  lovely  line  of  the 
Nantahala  towards  which  one's  course  is  directed. 
In  the  picturesque  Cullasagee  Valley  —  "Sugar 
Fork"  the  people  call  it,  rudely  translating  the  soft 
Indian  name  —  you  leave  the  main  road  and  go 
through  the  woods  to  the  fall  whose  thunder  pre- 
pares you  for  the  headlong  leap  of  the  stream  down 
nearly  a  hundred  feet  of  vertical  cliff.  It  is  one  of  the 
noblest  falls  in  the  region,  and  when  one  went  there, 
the  way  to  it  was  made  memorable  as  well  by  the 
ginseng  seen  blossoming  in  the  woods.  This  myste- 
rious little  plant,  "sang"  the  people  call  it,  w^hose 
roots  are  so  potent  to  cure  the  Chinaman  of  all  his 
ills,  has  been  nearly  exterminated  because  of  the 


258       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

eager  search  the  country  people  have  made  for  it. 
They  sold  it  at  the  stores,  where  one  large  root  was 
worth  a  week's  wages.  This  inconspicuous  little 
plant,  with  its  power  of  healing  Oriental  ills,  belongs 
to  that  mysterious  brotherhood  of  the  two  continents, 
appearing  only  in  the  eastern  United  States  and 
eastern  Asia. 

Returning  from  the  fall  and  following  down  the 
clear  Cullasagee,  Franklin  in  time  comes  to  view 
where  it  lies  so  prettily  on  the  blood-red  waters  of  the 
Little  Tennessee,  with  the  Nantahala  rising,  an 
exquisite  background,  behind  it.  And  seeing  it  thus 
in  the  mystical  light  of  the  summer  day  one  has 
again  that  vision  of  what  the  earth  might  be,  and 
will  be,  when  future  generations  are  moved  by  the 
power  of  beauty  that  is  finally  to  conquer  the  world. 

Seven  or  eight  miles  before  reaching  Franklin,  one 
passes  the  noted  Corundum  Hill,  at  Cullasagee,  the 
site  of  the  mine  where,  besides  other  less  attractive 
minerals,  men  are  in  eager  search  of  the  gems  that 
lie  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  ancient  rocks. 

Franklin,  although  it  is  the  county  seat,  seemed 
at  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  us  travelers  from  the  wild 
interior,  and  now  one  hears  with  dismay  that  the 
railroad  has  come  to  it  up  from  Tallulah  Falls  in 
Georgia,  which  makes  one  tremble  for  the  next  news 
from  Highlands.  The  railroad  does  very  well  in 
some  places,  but  imagine  a  locomotive  smoking  and 
puffing  and  screaming  up  that  romantic  valley  of  the 
Cullasagee  where  log  houses  and  spinning-wheels 
consoled  the  eye  in  former  days!    And  imagine  it 


HIGHLANDS  259 

bringing  up  at  a  smart  station  among  the  flaming 
azaleas  of  Highlands! 

From  Franklin  you  can  go  out  to  climb  the  steep 
sides  of  the  Nantahala,  where  the  road  winds  up 
among  gigantic  trees  —  which,  alas,  may  be  all 
gone  now  —  and  on  over  the  gap  and  down  to  the 
lower  but  very  picturesque  country  beyond,  where 
Standing  Indian,  the  last  and  one  of  the  highest 
summits  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  looks  calmly  over  the 
head  of  Chunky  Gal  Mountain  crouching  at  his  feet. 

Although  the  Nantahalas  abound  in  beautiful 
flowers,  they  also  have  a  reputation  for  the  produc- 
tion of  "ramps,"  as  the  people  call  the  wild  onions 
that  are  abundant  enough  in  some  regions  to  be  a 
nuisance  to  the  farmer.  Cattle  sometimes  eat  ramps 
and  are  poisoned,  though  it  is  said  that,  if  they  eat 
them  in  the  spring  before  other  greens  sprout,  they 
get  used  to  them  and  can  consume  them  without  in- 
jury. Ramps  are  pretty  notwithstanding  their  mal- 
odorous and  other  bad  qualities,  and  "ramp  coves," 
with  the  thousand  other  plants  that  fill  them,  are  not 
as  bad  as  the  name  implies. 

The  Nantahala  Range  rises  steeply  to  a  narrow 
edge  whose  summits  are  five  thousand  feet  or  more 
high,  and  one  discovers  that  it  is  this  steepness,  to- 
gether with  the  absence  of  near,  high  mountains, 
that  gives  the  range  its  strong  individual  line  against 
the  sky. 

Another  favorite  road  winds  down  through  the 
forest  from  Highlands  to  Whiteside  Cove,  where  one 
ought  to  stay  awhile  and  become  acquainted  with 


26o       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  appearance  of  grand  old  Whiteside  from  below, 
for  from  the  many  intersecting  ridges  and  coves  the 
great  mountain  with  its  Devil's  Court-House  appears 
to  advantage.  The  country  about  Whiteside  Cove  is 
extremely  wild,  for  it  is  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
Blue  Ridge  and  streams  rush  through  it  from  all 
directions.  And  yet  how  can  you  call  it  wild  with 
apple  trees  in  bloom  and  that  soft.  Southern  caress 
in  the  air! 

Beyond  Whiteside  Cove  the  road  leads  down  to 
Cashier  Valley  and  on  to  the  "Sapphire  Country," 
whose  natural  beauty  man  has  enriched  by  the  in- 
troduction of  lakes  into  the  landscape.  Cashier  Val- 
ley, with  its  open  spaces,  its  cultivated  farms,  and 
its  views  of  the  surrounding  mountains,  has  long 
been  a  favorite  place  of  residence,  and  it  was  here 
that  General  W'ade  Hampton  had  his  summer  home. 


XXV 

THE   SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY 

THE  romantic  name  of  this  region  is  said  to  have 
been  given  to  it  because  of  the  prevaiHng  color 
of  the  sky  and  the  waters.  There  are  moments  here, 
as  in  all  these  mountains,  when  the  celestial  hues 
of  the  heavens  seem  to  have  diffused  themselves 
through  the  tissues  of  air  and  earth,  and  we  have 
about  us  a  world  which  "Sapphire  Country"  well 
expresses. 

There  are  three  large  artificial  lakes  in  the  Sap- 
phire Country,  Lake  Fairfield,  the  upper  one,  occu- 
pying a  beautiful  little  "cove"  in  the  mountains  at 
an  elevation  of  about  three  thousand  feet;  Lake 
Sapphire,  a  short  distance  below  it,  longer,  narrower, 
and  more  winding,  lying  in  the  enlarged  bed  of  the 
Horse  Pasture  River;  and  Lake  Toxaway,  lying 
some  ten  or  twelve  miles  to  the  east  of  the  others, 
and  some  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  lower.  Lake 
Toxaway  is  larger  than  either  or  perhaps  both  of  the 
other  lakes,  having  a  shore-line  of  sixteen  miles. 

These  charming  lakes,  with  their  steep  wooded 
banks  here,  their  green  and  level  shores  there,  the 
outreaching  points  of  land,  the  mountains,  clouds, 
and  trees  reflected  in  the  water,  the  splendid  rho- 
dodendron and  laurel  that  in  places  crowd  to  the 
water's  edge,  give  to  the  scenery  something  that  to 


262       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

many  seems  essential  to  its  perfection.  The  lakes 
have  been  finished  long  enough  to  have  settled  into 
the  landscape  like  works  of  nature,  so  that  to  visit 
these  sheets  of  water,  that  lie  like  jewels  in  their 
beautiful  setting  of  trees  and  flowering  shrubs, 
leads  one  to  the  reflection  that  man  can  make  as 
fine  a  lake,  on  a  small  scale,  as  can  the  cosmic  glacier, 
he  following  nature's  method  of  clearing  out  the 
bottom  —  but  with  quick-working  shovels  of  steel 
instead  of  the  slow  push  of  ice  —  and  of  damming 
up  the  exit  with  a  symmetrical  stone  wall  instead  of 
an  irregular  haphazard  moraine. 

The  outlet  of  Lake  Toxaway  is  Toxaway  River, 
that,  rising  west  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  breaks  through 
that  barrier  —  the  only  river,  unless  it  may  be  the 
Linville,  that  does  this  —  and  joins  the  Horse  Pas- 
ture part-way  down  the  mountain.  For  the  Horse 
Pasture,  although  so  close  to  Toxaway  River,  rises 
on  the  western  slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  that  makes 
several  sudden  curves  in  this  region,  the  Sapphire 
and  Fairfield  lakes  lying  on  its  eastern  slope,  and 
Lake  Toxaway  west  of  it.  To  the  east  of  Lake  Tox- 
away the  streams  run  to  the  French  Broad  Valley 
that  begins  just  below  here,  and  along  which  a  road 
leads  from  Toxaway  down  to  Brevard,  lying  so  pleas- 
antly on  its  slopes  just  above  the  level  river  bottom. 

This  upper  part  of  the  French  Broad,  although  less 
impressive  than  where  the  river  breaks  through  the 
mountains  beyond  Asheville,  has  a  gracious  beauty 
of  its  own,  possessing  that  indefinable  charm  of 
level  spaces  below  uprising  hills.  The  French  Broad, 


THE   SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY  263 

it  is  interesting  to  know,  in  the  early  history  of  the 
country  lay  on  the  boundary  Hnc  between  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  F^rench  possessions,  the  French  acquir- 
ing by  treaty  all  the  territory  in  this  region  drained 
by  waters  running  to  the  Mississippi.  Since  there 
were  several  "Broad"  rivers  in  the  mountains,  this 
one  became  the  "French  Broad,"  a  name  that  it 
retains  to  this  day.  Up  the  French  Broad  Valley  as 
far  as  Toxaway  comes  that  branch  of  the  railroad, 
from  Hendersonville.  So  it  will  be  seen  that  High- 
lands now  lies  between  the  terminals  of  two  rail- 
roads, the  joining  of  which  one  fears  is  only  a  matter 
of  time. 

The  largest  and  finest  of  the  group  of  hotels  that 
has  sprung  up  at  these  lakes  is  at  Toxaway,  where 
the  visitor  will  find  all  the  amenities  of  modern  hotel 
life.  And  now  an  electric  car  line  is  being  projected 
from  Toxaway  to  Fairfield,  the  first  thread  in  that 
web  of  steel  which  the  eye  of  prophecy  sees  woven 
over  the  mountains  in  the  near  future. 

The  whole  Sapphire  Country  is  remarkable  for  its 
scenic  beauty.  The  points  of  view  to  go  to,  the  moun- 
tains to  climb,  the  streams  to  fish,  the  waterfalls  to 
visit,  the  forests  to  explore,  afford  inexhaustible 
entertainment  to  the  nature-lover,  to  which  has 
been  added  tennis,  golf,  boating  and  hunting  for 
those  who  enjoy  such  sports;  for  the  property  of  the 
hotel  company,  which  includes  some  twenty-eight 
thousand  acres,  is  mostly  wild  land  where  the  forests, 
kept  as  game  preserv'es,  are  full  of  deer  and  birds  and 
the  streams  and  lakes  are  well  stocked  with  fish. 


264       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Waterfalls  are  a  characteristic  of  this  country  that 
lies  so  near  the  steep  walls  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  In 
whatever  direction  one  may  walk,  ride,  or  drive, 
there  are  the  waters  leaping  down,  sometimes  in  deaf- 
ening volume,  sometimes  in  exquisite  veils,  or  white, 
winding  threads,  or  ethereal  fabrics  woven  of  air, 
water,  and  light,  sparkling  and  gay.  Whatever  form 
of  waterfall  one  likes  best  can  here  be  found,  for 
these  jewels  of  the  landscape  are  everywhere  strung 
on  the  silver  streams  that  embroider  the  green  robe 
of  the  Sapphire  Country,  —  and  along  the  water- 
courses and  bordering  the  cascades  the  smaller  rho- 
dodendrons, those  the  color  of  a  blush  rose,  hang 
their  exquisite  flowers  over  the  rocks. 

Among  the  roads  that  run  in  every  direction  is 
one  up  Toxaway  Mountain,  or  Great  Hogback,  as  it 
is  called  on  the  maps,  on  whose  summit  it  is  worth 
while  to  spend  the  night  and  see  the  sun  rise  over  one 
of  the  finest  panoramic  views  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  there  being  no  near  heights  to  obstruct  the 
outlook.  But  sometimes,  instead  of  rising  over  a 
world  of  mountains,  the  sun  shines  across  a  level 
expanse  of  white  cloud  out  of  which  as  time  goes  on 
mountain-tops  appear  one  after  the  other,  phantas- 
mal islands  in  an  unearthly  sea.  As  the  sun  mounts, 
the  ineffable  abyss  of  mists,  lights,  and  shadows 
changes  and  acquires  substance,  finally  resolving 
into  far-reaching  mountains,  green,  blue,  opaline  — 
some  of  them  free  of  clouds.  Others  with  cloud 
banners  floating  over  them,  or  soft  cloud  lakes 
cradled  in  their  hollows.   But  sometimes  the  clouds 


THE  SAPPHIRE  COUNTRY  265 

He  higher  and  you  wake  up  shivering  to  discover 
that  these  mists  are  beautiful  only  when  wrapping 
up  your  friends  below. 

One  remembers  with  pleasure  the  sweet  things 
that  grow  on  Toxaway  Mountain,  fragrant  white 
azaleas,  tall,  orange-red  lilies,  saxifrages,  columbines, 
laurel,  everything  in  its  season,  the  flame-colored 
azaleas  converting  it  into  a  blazing  garden  in  their 
blooming  time,  while  sweet-fern,  suddenly  discovered 
growing  at  your  feet,  sends  your  thought  in  a  flash 
back  to  those  New  England  pastures  forever  fra- 
grant in  memory  with  the  sweet-fern  that  clothes 
them. 

You  will  not  be  in  the  Sapphire  Country  long, 
nor  any'where  in  the  higher  mountains  for  that  mat- 
ter, without  hearing  the  magic  word  "corundum." 
Upon  investigation  corundum  proves  to  be,  on  the 
surface,  a  useful  but  prosaic  mineral  which,  because 
of  its  extreme  hardness  —  it  is  next  to  the  diamond 
in  that  —  is  made  into  emery  wheels,  sandpaper,  and 
other  abrasive  instruments.  But  this  is  only  one 
side  of  corundum.  When  you  penetrate  into  its  his- 
tory you  find  it  the  product  of  very  old  rocks,  the 
oldest  rocks  on  earth  —  which  is  interesting,  but 
not  vital  to  anybody  but  the  geologist.  But,  and  here 
corundum  becomes  not  only  of  absorbing  interest 
but  positively  dazzling,  mysteriously  connected  with 
it,  born  from  it  like  fancies  from  a  poet's  brain,  are 
the  most  beautiful  and  precious  gems  in  the  world, 
gems  surpassed  in  value  by  the  diamond  alone. 

When  corundum  crystalizes  in  an  ecstasy  of  red, 


266       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

we  have  rubies,  —  true,  or,  as  we  say.  Oriental 
rubles,  —  gems  next  to  the  diamond  in  value,  or  in 
their  best  form  equal  to  it.  When  the  crystals  form 
in  other  moods,  they  shine  forever  as  purple  ame- 
thyst, or  Oriental  sapphire,  or  pink  or  white  sap- 
phire, or  they  glow  with  the  deep  and  thrilling  green 
of  the  emerald,  rarest  of  gems  and  equal  in  value  to 
the  ruby,  or  they  emit  the  yellow  light  of  the  topaz. 
Corundum  crystals  take  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow, each  gem  named  from  its  color,  and  all  of  them, 
no  matter  of  what  color,  are  known  under  the  general 
name  of  sapphire  crystals,  or  sapphires.  Sapphire 
crystals  of  all  colors  are  found  in  the  North  Carolina 
mountains,  some  predominating  in  one  section,  some 
in  another. 

Corundum,  the  mother  rock  of  the  most  precious 
gems,  is  found  throughout  the  North  Carolina 
mountains  excepting  in  the  extreme  northern  part, 
and  there  are  several  mines  in  the  Sapphire  Country, 
which  is  a  famous  corundum  region,  and  these  mines, 
although  not  worked  primarily  for  gems,  yield  many 
fine  ones,  particularly  blue  sapphires,  to  which  cir- 
cumstance some  attribute  the  name  of  the  region. 
It  is  a  fortunate  place  that  has  more  than  one  reason 
for  deserving  such  a  name. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  corundum  mining 
which  has  grown  to  so  important  an  industry  here, 
began  its  history  in  a  gem  mine.  This  was  at  Corun- 
dum Hill,  near  Franklin,  and  the  mine,  which  was 
opened  in  1871,  among  other  treasures  yielded  what 
is  said  to  be  the  finest  specimen  of  emerald  green 


THE  SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY  267 

crystallized  corundum  In  the  world.  It  must  not  be 
supposed,  however,  that  this  remarkable  crystal, 
measuring  four  and  a  half,  by  two,  by  one  and  a  half 
inches,  and  which  is  now  in  the  Morgan-Bcment 
Collection  in  New  York,  is  what  we  should  call  an 
"emerald."  If  that  were  so,  we  should  have  the 
most  precious  gem  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  P'or  a 
gem  must  be  transparent,  and  while  there  are  in  this 
crystal  transparent  places  from  which  gems  could  be 
cut,  the  crystal  as  a  whole  has  not  realized  absolute 
transparency  throughout,  even  a  cr>'stal  reaching 
perfection  only  at  rare  intervals,  which  is  why  the 
great  gems  are  so  noted,  so  few,  and  so  costly.  When 
we  buy  a  gem  stone  we  are  buying  the  highest  ex- 
pression of  inorganic  life,  the  poetry  of  the  rocks. 

The  Cullasagee  corundum  mine  began  as  a  gem 
mine,  but  since  the  finest  gems  of  the  rocks,  like  the 
most  inspired  fancies  of  the  poet,  are  few  and  far 
between,  the  mine  in  time  became  worked  princi- 
pally for  corundum,  which,  having  been  unable  to 
cr>'stallize  into  gems,  was  set  to  sharpening  and 
polishing.  Not  that  gems  are  no  longer  found  in  this 
mine:  many  a  fine  one  appears,  like  an  occasional 
inspiration,  from  the  rocks  which  are  now  valued 
principally  for  their  lower  service  of  utility. 

But  there  are  other  gem  mines  in  the  mountains 
to-day,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  lying  in  the  valley 
of  Cowee  Creek,  whose  waters  enter  the  Little  Ten- 
nessee only  a  few  miles  north  of  Franklin.  Here  are 
found  true  rubies,  concerning  which  a  government 
report  on  this  region  says:  "In  color  and  brilliancy 


268       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

they  are  equal  to  the  Burmah  ruby,  and  if  the  per- 
centage of  the  unflawed,  transparent  material  in- 
creases but  little,  this  new  field  for  the  ruby  would 
be  a  well-matched  rival  to  the  Burmah  fields." 

This  is  very  pleasant,  the  only  thing  lacking  to 
make  perfect  the  fascination  of  these  flower-graced 
mountains  being  the  discovery  that  the  rocks  be- 
neath are  graced  with  Burmah  rubies.  Burmah,  it  is 
true,  has  not  yet  yielded  up  her  sceptre  to  the  proud 
corundum  rocks  of  the  New  World,  for  years  of  un- 
fulfilled hopes  have  passed  since  that  report  was 
made.  But  one  is  comforted  by  the  reflection  of  how 
short  a  time  it  is  since  any  efforts  have  been  made 
systematically  to  explore  these  rocks. 

Although  the  field  of  sapphire  gems  is  so  extensive, 
it  must  not  be  supposed  that  in  the  course  of  millen- 
niums the  crystal  flowers  of  these  mountains  have 
blossomed  in  corundum  alone.  If  the  ruby  has  re- 
mained but  a  dazzling  hope,  another  source  of  gem 
stones  has  yielded  a  treasure  which  is  not  only  very 
beautiful,  but  is  abundant  enough  and  occurs  in 
large  enough  stones  to  make  mining  for  it  profitable. 
It  is  also  peculiar  to  this  region,  an  original  product 
of  the  North  Carolina  mountains,  which  from  some 
points  of  view  is  better  even  than  duplicating  a 
Burmah  ruby.  This  new  gem  Is  found  also  in  Cowee 
Creek  and  near  the  ruby  deposits.  It  Is  a  peculiar 
form  of  garnet  and  its  name  is  rhodolite.  It  is  re- 
markable for  Its  transparency  and  great  brilliancy, 
the  color  shining  out  with  peculiar  brightness  In  arti- 
ficial light.    If  you  ask  how  it  differs  from  the  true 


THE  SAPPHIRE  COUNTRY  269 

ruby,  the  answer  is  that  the  finest  sapphire  gems 
have  an  intensity  of  color  never  equaled  by  any 
other  stones,  and  the  ruby  is  valued  for  this  and  its 
wonderful  lustre,  although  other  gems  may  surpass 
it  in  brilliancy.  Rhodolite,  like  rhododendron,  gets 
its  beautiful  name  from  the  Greek  word  meaning 
rose,  for  it  is  the  color  of  roses  and  rhododendrons. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Cowec  Creek  these  two  lovely 
gems,  the  ruby  and  the  rhodolite,  have  blossomed  side 
by  side  in  the  rocks,  each  extracting  from  them  what 
it  needed  to  bring  to  expression  the  spirit  of  inorganic 
life,  just  as  in  the  crumbling  soil  above  them  the 
roses  and  rhododendrons  have  blossomed  each  in  its 
own  rare  colors  to  express  the  inner  spirit  of  the 
plant.  And  who  shall  say  that  the  same  necessity, 
impelling  the  crystals  through  cycles  of  cosmic  pres- 
sure to  emerge  in  permanent  forms  of  beauty,  does 
not  impel  the  flowers  of  the  upper  air  to  clothe  them- 
selves in  transitory  loveliness? 

Other  members  of  the  garnet  group  besides  rhodo- 
lite have  been  found  in  the  North  Carolina  Moun- 
tains, but  perhaps  none  other  of  important  gem  value, 
although  immediately  below  the  mountains  Bohe- 
mian gem  garnets,  or  Cape  rubies,  as  they  are  also 
called,  are  found  in  abundance.  But  the  garnet  of 
the  mountains  exists  as  a  rule  in  massive  form,  in 
places  pure  enough  to  be  cut  into  wheels,  — 
"emery  wheels"  made  of  garnet! 

In  addition  to  the  corundum  or  sapphire  gems,  and 
the  one  precious  garnet  stone,  there  is,  in  the  moun- 
tains, a  remarkable  series  of  gem  cr>'stals  found  in  the 


270        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

mica  veins.  For  while  mica  may  not  itself  create  gems, 
there  is  in  company  with  it,  born  as  it  were  from  the 
same  mother,  the  group  of  beautiful  crystals  belong- 
ing to  the  beryl  type  and  which  are  among  the  most 
valuable  of  the  precious  stones.  Large  sea-blue 
aquamarines,  that  for  beauty  of  color  have  never 
been  surpassed,  and  beryls,  both  sea-green  and  yel- 
low, than  which  none  richer  have  ever  been  found, 
as  well  as  clear  green  and  blue  stones,  occur  in  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  mountains  in  sufficient  quantities  to 
make  mining  for  them  profitable,  although  none 
have  been  found  in  the  Sapphire  Country  where  the 
beryl-bearing  rocks  are  less  prominent. 

The  most  important  of  the  beryl  mines  thus  far 
opened  are  in  the  Black  Mountain  Country,  particu- 
larly near  Spruce  Pine,  where  mining  operations  have 
brought  to  light  many  lovely  gems,  notable  among 
which  are  blue  stones  of  large  size  and  equal,  we  are 
told,  to  any  from  Brazil,  with  lesser  numbers  of  fine 
aquamarine  and  honey-yellow  gems.  And  the  beryl- 
bearing  rocks  of  North  Carolina  have,  like  the  co- 
rundum rocks,  given  a  new  gem  to  the  world,  al- 
though it  has  not  been  found  in  the  mountains.  It  is 
the  beautiful  new  emerald  known  as  hiddenite, 
which  is  being  profitably  mined  at  a  place  called 
Stony  Point,  in  the  foothills  just  below  the  moun- 
tains, and  where  some  very  valuable  stones  have 
been  found. 

Mica,  which  occurs  plentifully  and  of  very  fine 
quality  in  the  North  Carolina  mountains,  was 
mined  there  even  in  prehistoric  times,  as  has  re- 


THE   SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY  271 

cently  been  discovered,  and  it  is  from  these  mica 
mines  that  beryls  were  first  obtained,  the  discovery 
of  the  sapphire  gems  coming  later.  No  one  can  be 
in  the  mica  mining  regions  of  the  mountains  without 
noticing  the  glitter  of  the  dry  roads  as  well  as  the 
sparkling  appearance  of  man  and  beast  when  these 
have  traversed  the  highways,  thereby  becoming 
covered  with  "diamond  dust." 

As  well  as  the  sapphire  and  beryl  gems,  the  rocks 
of  these  fortunate  mountains  yield  beautiful  crystals 
of  the  cyanite  group,  closely  related  to  topaz  and 
named  from  a  Greek  word  meaning  blue,  because  of 
their  prevailing  color,  the  finest  of  these  blue  stones 
resembling  Oriental  sapphires.  As  to  tourmalines, 
they  seem  to  be  awaiting  their  discoverer,  only  black 
ones  of  gem  quality  being  generally  found,  although 
what  one  might  call  the  haunts  of  the  tourmaline  are 
frequent  enough. 

Very  beautiful  quartz  crystals  are  abundant  in 
different  parts  of  the  mountains,  the  finest  gem  of 
which  is  the  purple  amethyst,  not  the  Oriental  or 
sapphire  amethyst,  but  still  an  exceedingly  beauti- 
ful stone.  A  valuable  mine  of  these  gems  was  once 
brought  to  light  in  an  unusual  and  romantic  manner. 
This  happened  on  Tessentee  Creek  that  enters  the 
Little  Tennessee  a  few  miles  south  of  Franklin.  Here 
a  landslide  exposed  a  large  vein  of  crystalline  quartz 
to  a  depth  of  twenty  feet,  and  in  the  decomposed 
rocks  of  this  vein  amethysts  were  found  in  large 
quantities,  there  being  many  beautiful  ones  from 
half  an  inch  to  three  inches  long,  both  light  and  dark 


272       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

in  color,  the  dark  spots  often  of  the  deepest  purple. 
These  gems,  thus  offered  open-handed  by  nature, 
were  equal,  it  is  said  on  authority,  to  those  found  in 
any  country  of  the  globe. 

Beautiful  smoky  and  citron  green  quartz  crystals 
abound  in  the  Black  Mountain  region,  and  the 
choicest  form  of  quartz,  rock  crystal,  also  occurs 
abundantly  there,  masses  of  several  hundred  pounds* 
weight  having  been  found.  From  these  have  been 
cut  many  beautiful  objects  by  the  Tiffany  lapidar- 
ies of  New  York,  among  them  a  crystal  ball  five 
inches  in  diameter.  One  mass  of  rock  crystal  was 
found  encrusted  with  a  green  substance  so  that  when 
polished  it  looked  like  moss  under  clear  water. 

Aside  from  those  gems,  whose  very  names  have  so 
long  exercised  a  spell  over  the  human  heart,  there 
are  found  here  many  lovely  crystals  bearing  un- 
familiar scientific  names,  but  from  which  beautiful 
jewels  can  be  cut;  and  while  few  of  us  will  be  fort- 
unate enough  to  find  priceless  stones  in  the  crystal 
streams  that  sparkle  under  the  laurel,  or  stumble 
upon  a  newly  disclosed  amethyst  mine,  any  one  with 
a  fondness  for  crystals  and  a  little  knowledge  of  how 
to  proceed  can  gather  many  a  lovely,  unfading  flower 
of  the  rocks  to  recall  the  days  of  happy  wandering 
over  the  oldest  and  most  gracious  mountains  in  the 
world. 

Besides  the  crystals  there  are  many  rare  and  beau- 
tiful minerals  not  only  valuable  to  the  collector,  but 
available  for  purposes  of  art,  among  which  quartz 
yields  a  lovely  fawn  and  salmon-pink  chalcedony,  as 


THE  SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY  273 

well  as  agates,  green  chrysoprase,  and  red  and  yellow 
jasper.  And  there  are  choice  building  stones  to  be 
found  almost  everywhere,  among  them  serpentine 
and  beautiful  marbles,  in  some  places  the  marble 
being  white  and  fine  enough  for  the  sculptor's  chisel. 
So  that  one  who  should,  like  Kubla  Khan,  a  stately 
pleasure  dome  decree,  could  find  choice  materials  for 
its  construction  close  at  hand,  with  beautiful  and 
rare  stones  to  ornament  the  interior  and  even  en- 
crust it  with  jewels  —  all  from  the  rocks  that  other- 
wise adorn  the  earth  with  their  covering  of  beautiful 
plant  growths. 

And  beyond  the  minerals  that  are  beautiful,  there 
are  many  that  are  curious  or  useful,  among  them 
asbestos,  that  seems  so  little  like  stone  and  which  is 
here  found  of  the  finest  quality;  and  there  is  pure 
talc  from  which  our  best  toilet  powders  are  made, 
and  soapstone,  a  form  of  talc,  and  graphite,  and  the 
queer  flexible  sandstone,  a  bar  of  which  bends  when 
you  lift  it ;  and  kaolin  is  mined  for  the  making  of  fine 
white  china.  Indeed,  almost  everything  one  can  ask 
from  the  rocks  —  even  to  the  newly  valued  "rare 
earths"  —  here  await  man's  pleasure. 

Crystals  and  the  other  rare  minerals  from  the 
North  Carolina  mountains  are  treasured  in  the 
greatest  collections  of  the  world,  in  this  country  very 
fine  ones  being  on  exhibition  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art  and  the  American  Museum  of  Nat- 
ural History,  both  in  New  York,  in  the  United 
States  National  Museum  at  Washington,  in  the 
Field  Columbian  Musuem  at  Chicago,  as  well  as  in 


274        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

many  smaller  museums  and  private  collections,  and 
they  have  been  shown  in  the  great  expositions  of  the 
world,  where  we  are  told  their  absence  would  leave  a 
vacancy  that  could  not  be  filled. 

Hunting  in  these  later  days  has  been  transferred 
almost  entirely  from  the  destruction  of  animals  to 
the  finer  sport  of  finding  and  treasuring  precious 
stones  and  rare  or  beautiful  plants.  The  animals 
that  once  abounded  here  are  practically  gone.  The 
crystals,  hidden  away  in  the  recesses  of  the  earth  and 
affording  more  difficult  hunting,  are  only  beginning 
to  be  objects  of  general  interest.  But  the  plants 
have  long  attracted  attention,  and  the  beautiful 
Sapphire  Country,  with  its  sparkling  waters,  its 
crystal  flowers  of  the  rocks,  and  its  glorious  plant 
flowers,  is  the  home  of  a  beautiful  little  blossom 
which  has  the  most  romantic  history  of  any  flower  in 
the  mountains,  it  having  been  the  quest  for  nearly 
half  a  century  of  every  botanist  who  came  hunting 
to  this  paradise  for  botanists.  It  is  the  Shortia  galaci- 
folia,  with  a  leaf  closely  resembling  the  galax,  to 
whose  botanical  family  it  belongs,  but  which,  instead 
of  blossoming  in  a  spike  of  small  white  flowers,  bears 
a  single  large  and  beautiful  white  or  pink  blossom  on 
a  slender  stem.  The  flowers,  with  their  delicate  wavy 
petals  standing  close  together  above  the  clustered 
leaves,  are  extremely  beautiful,  although  it  was  not 
this  beauty  that  at  first  excited  interest  in  the  plant 
that  became  an  object  of  eager  quest  long  before  any 
one  had  so  much  as  seen  its  flowers! 

It  was  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago  that  the 


THE  SAPPHIRE   COUNTRY  275 

French  botanist  Michaux  came  to  these  mountains 
to  explore  the  plant  world,  taking  back  to  France 
many  living  specimens  as  well  as  a  large  herbarium. 
After  him  came  other  botanists,  among  them  our 
own  Asa  Gray.  In  fact  all  botanists  of  note  had  first 
or  last  to  come  here,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  all 
the  wild  flowers  had  been  captured  and  named,  if 
they  are  yet.  Meantime,  Dr.  Gray  being  in  Paris 
one  day  discovered  in  the  collection  of  Michaux  a 
little  unnamed  plant  marked  as  having  come  from 
the  high  mountains  of  Carolina.  The  specimen  was 
imperfect,  consisting  of  only  the  leaves  and  one 
fruit  —  the  leaves  but  not  the  fruit  of  the  galax. 
This  little  nameless  plant  with  its  interesting  peculi- 
arities became  an  object  of  vain  search  to  Dr.  Gray, 
but  he  finally  ventured  to  describe  it,  and  named  it 
in  honor  of  Professor  Short  of  Kentucky,  whereupon 
Shortia  became  an  object  of  general  quest.  Mean- 
time Dr.  Gray  found  a  specimen  almost  identical 
with  Shortia  in  a  collection  of  Japanese  plants,  which 
of  course  greatly  increased  his  desire  to  find  it.  But 
it  was  not  until  nearly  a  century  after  the  specimen 
of  Michaux  had  been  gathered,  and  nearly  half  a 
century  since  the  search  for  it  began,  that  Shortia 
was  really  captured,  not  by  Dr.  Gray,  but  by  Pro- 
fessor Sargent  who  was  exploring  the  Sapphire 
Country-  so  rich  in  beautiful  growths. 

The  strangest  part  of  the  story  is  that  having  been 
traced  to  its  home  at  last,  Shortia  was  found,  on  the 
Horse  Pasture  River  a  few  miles  south  of  where  Lake 
Toxaway  now  lies,  literally  coloring  acres  of  the 


276       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

earth  with  its  charming  flowers,  and  there  any  one 
so  incHned  will  probably  find  it  to-day,  although  it 
has  been  carried  away  by  the  wagon-load,  not,  how- 
ever, becoming  thereby  exterminated,  as  happens  to 
so  many  of  our  wild  flowers  when  the  thoughtless 
visitor  tears  them  rudely  from  the  soil.  For  it  was 
not  the  thoughtless  visitor  who  removed  Shortia, 
but  skillful  gardeners,  who  took  it  and  cultivated  it 
with  the  greatest  care  and  sent  it  out  to  beautify  the 
gardens  of  the  people  all  over  the  world. 


XXVI 

THE  FORKS  OF  THE  PIGEON  RIVER 

YOU  ought  to  go  to  the  Forks  of  the  Pigeon,  the 
coves  are  so  thick  up  there,  there  is  scarcely 
room  for  the  mountains."  Thus  the  people  advise, 
and  to  the  Forks  of  the  Pigeon,  if  you  are  wise,  you 
will  go,  not  for  the  reason  given  so  much  as  that  up 
there  you  will  find  a  new  and  very  interesting  coun- 
try to  explore.  Besides  the  coves  there  are  Cold 
Mountain,  Shining  Rock,  the  redoubtable  Sam 
Knob,  and  Pisgah  itself,  which  is  accessible  from  the 
East  Fork. 

For  you  must  know  that  the  Big  Pigeon  River 
starts  in  the  most  remarkable  cul-de-sac  in  the  moun- 
tains, a  cul-de-sac  formed  partly  by  Pisgah  Range, 
which,  sweeping  down  in  a  southwesterly  direction, 
meets  a  line  of  high  balds  coming  down  from  the 
northwest.  These  two  mountains  ranges  form,  as  it 
were,  the  prongs  of  a  mammoth  pitchfork,  whose 
handle  is  the  Tennessee  Ridge  reaching  down  nearly 
to  Toxaway  Mountain.  At  the  point  where  the  han- 
dle joins  the  prongs,  forming,  as  it  were,  a  strong 
connective,  is  the  beautiful  Tennessee  Bald,  its  sum- 
mit covered  with  blue-grass  and  white-clover. 

The  cup-shaped  space  between  the  prongs  of  the 
pitchfork  is  occupied  by  the  nearly  circular  Cold 
Mountain  uplift,  that,  at  Sam  Knob,  its  highest 


278        THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

point,  rises  to  an  elevation  a  little  over  six  thousand 
feet.  The  two  Forks  of  the  Pigeon  almost  surround 
Cold  Mountain,  receiving  the  waters  that  rush  down 
its  steep  sides  as  well  as  those  from  the  western 
slopes  of  Pisgah  and  the  eastern  slope  of  the  line  of 
balds.  The  two  Forks  come  together  at  the  north 
end  of  Cold  Mountain  just  above  the  settlement  of 
Garden  Greek,  forming  the  Big  Pigeon,  one  of  the 
wildest  streams  of  the  mountains,  and  that  speeds 
along  in  a  general  northwesterly  direction,  finally  to 
break  through  a  gorge  of  the  Great  Smoky  Moun- 
tains some  miles  south  of  where  the  French  Broad 
makes  its  exit  in  gentler  fashion,  the  Pigeon  entering 
the  French  Broad  when  both  rivers  are  well  out  of 
the  mountains. 

Garden  Creek,  with  its  restful  levels,  its  grain- 
fields  and  apple-orchards,  and  its  fine  outlooks  to 
the  western  mountains,  is  a  good  place  from  which 
to  explore  the  interesting  country  of  the  Forks.  It 
is  reached  by  driving  up  the  valley  of  the  Pigeon 
from  Canton  on  the  Murphy  Branch.  If  Mr.  Osborne 
is  still  at  Garden  Creek,  he  will  tell  you  of  the  In- 
dian mounds  he  helped  to  open,  as  well  as  of  many 
interesting  things  of  the  surrounding  country.  There 
is  one  mound  at  Garden  Creek  with  an  apple  tree 
growing  out  of  the  top,  but  the  greater  number  have 
been  found,  and  opened,  in  the  present  Cherokee 
boundary,  and  in  those  larger  valleys  like  that  of  the 
\'alley  River,  where  the  more  important  Indian  vil- 
lages stood. 

The  contents  of  these  mounds,  principally  bones, 


THE   FORKS  OF   PIGEON   RIVER    279 

pottery,  and  stone  implements,  which  do  not  differ 
essentially  from  the  contents  of  other  Indian 
mounds,  have  been  placed  in  various  museums  of 
the  country,  principally  in  that  of  the  Valentine 
Museum  at  Richmond,  Virginia. 

Henson  Cove,  under  Sugar  Top  Mountain,  is  not 
one  of  the  wild  Fork  co^X's,  but  being  at  Garden 
Creek  you  will  often  go  there  for  the  sake  of  the 
pleasant  walk  through  the  woods  and  past  the  little 
farms,  where  the  catbird  and  the  thrush  sing  to  you 
along  the  way,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  friendly  peo- 
ple who  live  there.  As  you  go  along  in  the  fresh 
morning,  the  air  perfumed  by  the  wild  grapevine 
draping  the  tree  above  your  head,  the  wild  roses 
blossoming  along  the  slopes,  white  azaleas  on  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  ripe  strawberries  hiding  some- 
where near  in  the  grass,  as  you  go  along,  the  warm 
summer  sun  drawing  the  fragrance  out  of  all  sweet 
things,  you  decide  that  there  is  no  better  walk  than 
that  to  Henson  Cove. 

One  of  the  joys  of  the  road  is  the  complete  recov- 
ery of  one's  senses.  In  the  city  you  have  no  use  for 
anything  but  eyes  and  ears,  and  not  for  the  finer 
offices  of  those.  But  in  the  open  —  how  many  deli- 
cate sounds  attest  the  unsuspected  register  of  the 
ear!  Day  by  day  you  hear  new  cadences  in  the  tree- 
tops,  in  the  shrubs  and  the  grasses.  Voices,  silent  at 
first,  grow  audible,  sometimes  you  almost  hear  the 
flowers  sing.  And  the  eye,  recovering  from  the 
dust  and  glare  of  the  streets,  sees  finer  tones  of  color, 
detects  delicate  movements  in  the  lea^•es  and  in  the 


28o       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

clouds,  your  spirit  is  stunned  by  depths  of  black 
thunder  abysses  and  exalted  by  the  softly  shining 
tints  of  the  morning  sky. 

And  in  the  open  you  acquire  a  new  sense.  You 
learn  to  smell.  The  most  sensitive  and  poetical  of 
all  our  senses,  in  the  cities  becomes  deadened  from 
disuse.  But  one  day,  in  the  sweet,  clean  air  of  the 
mountains,  one  makes  the  charming  discovery  that 
one  can  smell!  Perhaps,  going  along  a  lonely  road, 
there  comes  a  sudden  waft  of  delicious  fragrance  — 
ah,  strawberries!  —  where  are  they?  There  is  no  one 
to  tell,  but  the  fragrance  is  wafted  to  you  again,  a 
little  more  certainly,  and  so  you  go  in  the  direction 
indicated ;  again  it  comes,  but  fainter ;  you  turn  and 
try  again,  and  soon  you  are  sure  and  go  straight  to 
the  knoll  beyond  the  fence  where  the  ground  is  red 
with  the  ripe  fruit.  Sitting  down  and  tasting  a  berry 
here  and  there,  you  detect  a  flavor  that  exists  only 
for  him  who  has  smelled  his  way  to  the  feast.  With 
the  tuning-upof  the  senses  come  pleasures  unguessed 
in  the  grosser  uses  of  these  divine  faculties.  One 
sometimes  hears  music  in  the  fall  of  water  over  a 
cliff,  in  the  sweep  of  the  wind  through  forest  trees, 
in  the  mingling  crashes  of  a  thunderstorm,  or  smells 
harmonies  in  the  flowers,  or  tastes  rhythmic  cadences 
in  a  wild  berry. 

And  then  at  the  spring  of  icy  water  you  quench 
your  thirst  with  something  of  the  same  elation  you 
felt  in  the  flavor  of  the  strawberries,  for  did  you  not 
trace  your  way  to  this  spring  by  reasoning  out  where 
it  ought  to  be,  and  then  finding  the  path  that  led 


THE   FORKS   OF    PIGEON   RIVER     281 

straight  to  it?  To  what  better  use  could  one  put  the 
attribute  of  reason? 

With  what  pleasure  one  remembers  those  walks  to 
Henson  Cove,  with  its  friendly  people  and  its  pictur- 
esque houses,  in  which  still  linger  interesting  old 
customs,  old  counterpanes,  and  old  looms.  Is  Me- 
lissa Meese  still  weaving  in  Henson  Cove?  Can  one 
still  see  charming  coverlets  in  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Nancy  Blaylock?  Who  was  it  told  us  that  "when  a 
few  funerals  are  made  in  this  country  the  old  weav- 
ers are  all  gone"?  Is  that  picturesque  cabin  yet 
standing  under  Pizen  Cove  Top?  And  do  they  still 
have  to  guard  against  the  "  milk-sick  "  over  there  in 
Pizen  Cove? 

It  was  in  this  region  that  one  first  saw  a  "milk- 
sick  pen,"  and  heard  of  the  curious  sickness  which, 
attacking  cattle  that  eat  grass  or  leaves  in  certain 
well-defined  spots,  through  the  milk  poisons  the 
people,  sometimes  fatally.  W'hat  causes  this  strange 
illness  no  one  seems  to  know,  the  vegetation  in  these 
places  being  the  same  as  elsewhere;  but  what  the 
people  do  know  is  just  where  these  poisonous  spots 
are,  so  that  when  you  see  a  little  space  fenced  off 
anywhere  in  the  mountains  for  no  apparent  reason, 
you  will  generally  be  right  in  concluding  it  to  be  a 
"milk-sick"  spot. 

Dutch  Cove,  also  under  Sugar  Top,  but  separated 
from  Henson  Cove  by  a  pathless  ridge,  is  considera- 
bly farther  from  Garden  Creek,  from  which  it  is 
reached  by  a  trail  over  the  mountains.  Larger  and 
more  thickly  settled  than  Henson  Cove,  it  has  a  road 


282        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS' 

leading  out  towards  the  railroad,  that  is  to  say,  it  is 
connected  with  the  world.  Its  name  betrays  its 
origin,  and  you  hear  of  old  Dutch  Bibles  in  the  Cove, 
although  you  do  not  succeed  in  finding  any.  The 
people  of  the  more  secluded  Henson  Cove  consider 
Dutch  Cove  altogether  too  thickly  settled,  one  of 
them  assuring  you,  as  proof  of  the  degeneracy  of  the 
rival  settlement,  that  you  could  stand  in  her  cousin's 
door  in  Dutch  Cove  of  a  morning  and  hear  nine 
cofTee-mills  going  at  once. 

You  can  walk  to  Henson  and  Dutch  Coves,  but 
when  you  go  up  either  of  the  Forks  of  the  Pigeon  you 
will  get  up  "soon"  in  the  morning,  and  you  will  not 
go  afoot,  for  the  fords  of  the  forks  are  not  to  be  trifled 
with.  There  are  not  even  foot-logs  to  cause  the 
timid  to  tremble,  for  the  Forks  of  the  Pigeon  are 
master-hands  at  "  getting  up  "and  tearing  to  pieces 
everything  they  can  reach.  If  one  remembers 
rightly  there  are  about  twenty-six  fords  within  six 
or  seven  miles  up  the  East  Fork,  —  which  is  as  far 
as  the  road  goes,  —  and  heaven  knows  how  many  up 
the  West  Fork. 

To  explore  the  West  Fork  you  cross  the  main  river 
just  below  the  Forks,  that  is  to  say,  you  cross  it  if 
the  river  is  down.  If  it  is  up,  you  stay  at  home.  Hav- 
ing crossed,  —  how  innocent  the  stream  seems!  — 
you  are  surprised  to  find  the  valley  of  the  West  Fork 
very  much  like  that  of  Garden  Creek.  Fertile  acres 
lie  about  you,  elderberries  bloom  in  the  fence  corn- 
ers, blossoming  chinkapins  hang  over  the  roadside, 
the  smell  of  warm,  ripe  strawberries  lurking  some- 


THE   FORKS  OF   PIGEON   RIVER     283 

whore  near  in  the  grass  makes  your  sympathetic 
mouth  water,  while  the  roadside  is  gay  with  the  pale 
leaflets  and  large  bright-yellow,  pea-shaped  flowers 
of  the  Alleghany  thermopsis.  Green  meadows  where 
the  cattle  graze,  orchards,  thrifty-looking  farm- 
houses, blue  mountains  showing  in  the  distance  — 
the  West  Fork  does  not  seem  so  very  wild. 

Then  you  enter  a  ravine  under  shady  trees.  The 
road  crosses  and  recrosses  the  stream  o\er  fords  that 
are  deep  and  full  of  rocks.  The  horse  at  times  seems 
about  to  disappear  permanently.  The  water  runs 
over  the  sides  of  the  w-agon-box  as  the  wheels  sink  in 
a  hole  on  one  side  or  mount  a  rock  on  the  other.  That 
you  will  be  precipitated  into  the  laughing  waters  of 
the  West  Fork  seems  inevitable.  But  then  the 
kalmia  clusters  thickly  at  the  water's  edge,  and  a 
bird  is  singing  in  a  tree-top. 

At  the  narrowest  places  you  meet  loaded  tanbark 
wagons,  or  a  long  line  of  oxen  moving  slowly  forvvard 
with  a  load  of  lumber  that  looks  absurdly  small  until 
you  think  of  the  state  of  the  road,  when  the  wonder 
is  that  they  can  move  it  at  all.  Where  the  river  forks, 
one  branch  of  it  —  there  are  no  "prongs"  to  the 
streams  here  —  goes  to  the  right,  the  other  to  the 
left  of  Fork  jMountain,  a  spur  of  Cold  Mountain 
that  lies  between  the  two  nearly  parallel  arms  of  the 
stream.  The  left-hand  or  Little  East  Fork  lies  at 
the  bottom  of  a  long  narrow  "cove"  so  tightly 
squeezed  in  between  the  sides  of  Cold  Mountain  and 
the  wild  Fork  Mountain  that  road  and  river  continu- 
ally become  one.    And  here  on  either  side  are  the 


284       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

promised  "coves"  running  up  Into  the  mountains, 
close  together,  one  after  the  other,  choked  full  of 
laurel  and  rhododendron,  grown  with  forest  trees, 
and  each  contributing  a  wild  little  stream  to  swell 
the  waters  of  the  Little  East  Fork.  No  wonder  peo- 
ple stay  at  home  in  this  part  of  the  country  when 
the  waters  are  up! 

At  the  end  of  the  road  you  come,  not  to  a  lumber- 
camp,  but  to  a  house  with  a  clearing  where  the  occu- 
pants apparently,  have  lived  for  generations.  The 
people  here  are  glad  to  see  you.  A  visitor  up  the 
Little  East  Fork  is  no  everyday  occurrence,  and 
presently  they  are  telling  you  all  about  themselves, 
their  neighbors,  and  the  surrounding  mountains. 

Shining  Rock,  the  southern  end  of  Cold  Moun- 
tain, and  over  six  thousand  feet  high,  is  just  above 
your  head,  with  a  trail  only  four  miles  long  up  to  it 
over  the  Scape  Cat  Ridge.  Scape  Cat  has  no  name  on 
the  maps,  being  one  of  those  countless  ridges  which 
are  waiting  for  some  one  to  come  and,  discovering 
how  beautiful  it  can  be  made,  occupy  it  and  name  it 
according  to  his  fancy.  In  this  way,  let  us  hope,  will 
be  preserved  some  of  the  beautiful  Indian  names, 
the  liquid  sounds  of  which  harmonize  so  well  with 
the  character  of  the  landscape.  For  no  matter  how 
wild  this  mountain  country,  how  inaccessible  and 
rough,  it  is  at  the  same  time  exquisite  in  the  soft 
lights,  with  the  all-pervading  fragrances  and  the 
enchanting  growths.  Even  the  Little  East  Fork, 
now  one  sees  it,  is  found  to  be  lovable.  Scape  Cat 
owes  its  present  name  to  the  fact  that  "old  man 


THE   FORKS  OF   PIGEON   RIVER     285 

Campbell"  went  up  there  with  a  boy  hunting  for 
stock,  and  while  they  were  off,  some  one  stole  their 
rations.  Next  day  Campbell  hid  them  and  said  to  his 
boy,  "Well,  Andy,  we'll  'scape  them  cats  to-night." 
Old  Sally  Reese  took  the  rations,  ever>'body  knew, 
and  the  ridge  from  that  day  was  named,  in  her 
honor,  "Scape  Cat." 

In  all  this  region  turkeys,  domestic  as  well  as  wild, 
are  common,  and  a  "gang  of  turkeys"  is  about  as 
ordinary  a  sight  as  a  gang  of  chickens,  but  we  were 
not  prepared  way  up  here  on  the  Little  East  Fork 
of  the  Pigeon  River  to  behold  a  gang  of  peacocks. 
When  we  admired  them  with  a  sort  of  anticipatory 
pleasure  in  the  time  to  come,  when  peacocks  will 
sun  themselves  on  the  walls  in  the  charming  gar- 
dens that  charming  people  will  make  here,  we  were 
brought  violently  to  earth  by  learning  that  the  real 
value  of  the  peacock  is  in  its  superiority  to  chicken 
meat.  Peacocks,  you  learn,  provide  the  finest  dish 
you  ever  ate  —  and  their  tongues  are  not  even  men- 
tioned. 

If  you  want  to  climb  to  Shining  Rock,  you  will 
find  a  trail  going  up  from  here,  and  at  the  top  one  of 
those  balds  so  common  to  these  mountains,  and 
always  so  delightful.  The  top  of  Shining  Rock 
Mountain  is  so  level  that  we  were  told  that  men  and 
women  had  been  seen  running  footraces  all  over  it. 
There  are  small  firs  here  and  there,  and  splendid 
groups  of  Rhododendron  Catawhiense  whose  royal  red 
flowers  must  transform  Shining  Rock  into  a  garden 
of  delight  at  their  blooming  season.    Also  huckle- 


286       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

berries  grow  up  here  in  the  greatest  profusion,  your 
new  friend  of  the  Little  East  Fork  informing  you 
that  she  would  not  mind  climbing  up  to  Shining 
Rock  and  picking  and  bringing  home  half  a  bushel 
of  huckleberries  any  day. 

Shining  Rock  is  named  from  the  remarkable  mass 
of  white  quartz,  more  than  an  eighth  of  a  mile  long 
and  from  thirty  to  sixty  feet  thick,  that  lies  along 
the  crest  of  the  mountain  and  which  is  a  conspicu- 
ous landmark  for  miles  around.  From  Shining  Rock 
one  looks  across  to  the  Richland  Balsam,  Lickstone 
Bald,  and  a  dozen  other  high  bald  mountains,  while 
on  the  opposite  side  rise  the  summits  of  Pisgah 
Ridge.  Indeed,  the  short  Cold  Mountain  Ridge 
stands  separated  by  deep  valleys  from  a  circle  of 
high  mountains  that  completely  surround  it.  Its 
southernmost  and  highest  point,  Sam  Knob,  almost 
separated  from  the  main  ridge  and  rising  without 
spurs  in  wild  precipices  to  an  altitude  of  over  six 
thousand  feet,  is  such  a  labyrinth  of  cliffs,  gorges, 
and  impenetrable  laurel  and  rhododendron  thickets 
that  the  mountain  cannot  be  approached  from  any 
side.  It  is  considered  inaccessible  even  by  the  hardy 
mountaineer,  so  that  when  a  hunted  bear  reaches 
Sam  Knob  he  is  not  pursued.  The  hunters  consider 
him  at  home.  There  are  not  many  bears  left  in  the 
mountains,  though  each  year  records  a  number  of 
captures  in  different  parts  of  the  wilderness.  That 
Bruin  was  once  common,  however,  is  shown  by  the 
frequency  with  which  his  name  occurs  in  the  Bear 
Wallows,  Bear  Creeks,  Bear  Pens,  and  Bear  Ridges 


THE    FORKS   OF    PIGEON   RIVER    287 

throughout  the  mountains.  All  this  region  was  noted 
for  big  game  until  very  recent  years.  But  now  the 
lumbermen,  before  whose  advance  all  life  perishes, 
have  found  their  way  even  into  the  coves  of  the 
Forks  of  the  Pigeon. 

The  road  up  the  East  Fork,  closely  following,  con- 
stantly crossing  and  recrossing  the  river,  is,  like  the 
way  up  the  West  F'ork,  delightful  on  a  summer  day. 
Each  ford  is  a  picture,  no  matter  how  the  crossing 
of  it  may  affect  your  feelings.  From  Cruso,  near  the 
end  of  the  road,  the  trail  to  the  top  of  Cold  Mountain 
is  a  trail  up  into  the  sky,  where  tall  forest  trees 
gradually  lower  their  heads  and  finally  disappear  to 
be  replaced  by  small  firs  and  great  gardens  of  the  red- 
flowering  Rhododendron  Catawbiense,  the  glorious 
shrub  that  so  loves  to  blossom  high  up  under  the 
dome  of  the  sky.  The  trail  leads  at  first  up  Cold 
Creek,  under  the  chestnuts,  oaks,  locusts,  and  tulip 
trees;  then  under  rocky  ledges  and  along  such  nar- 
row crests  that  you  look  down  on  either  hand  into 
deep-lying  coves  filled  with  trees  and  wonderful  in 
their  intensity  of  lights  and  shades.  The  sun  smites 
hot  as  it  strikes  you  on  one  side,  while  a  cold  north 
wind  strikes  you  on  the  other  side. 

The  walk  up  this  trail  was  made  forever  memor- 
able by  the  fear  your  guide  entertained  of  snakes. 
He  was  accompanied  by  his  little  son  whom  he 
constantly  cautioned  to  be  careful.  Neither  himself 
nor  any  of  his  friends  or  neighbors  had  been  "snake- 
bit,"  yet  every  step  of  the  way  through  the  laurel 
was  beset  with  unseen  dangers,  and  from  e\ery  ledge, 


288       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

close  under  which  we  had  to  pass,  a  snake  was  ex- 
pected to  precipitate  itself  upon  us,  and  every  time 
we  had  to  grasp  the  rock  to  help  ourselves  over  a 
difficult  place  we  were  in  danger  of  grasping  also  a 
snake,  while  from  him  walking  on  ahead  floated 
back  a  monologue  in  a  minor  key  whose  subject  was 
ever  the  same,  and  of  which  we  caught  such  frag- 
ments as  this,  "Be  mighty  careful  now,  look  where 
you  step!  I'd  rather  give  a  thousand  dollars  than 
get  you  snake-bit  up  here."  And  so  we  continued 
our  fearful  way  up  the  shining  slopes  and  over  the 
rocky  ridges  of  Cold  Mountain  on  a  bright  summer 
day. 

That  there  are  snakes,  the  names  of  the  many 
Rattlesnake  Ridges,  Dens,  Knobs,  and  Mountains, 
stand  as  evidence,  and  that  there  are  certain  dry, 
rocky  places  frequented  by  these  reptiles,  there  is 
no  doubt,  certain  parts  of  Cold  Mountain,  we  were 
told,  being  Infested  with  them ;  yet  few  people  have 
been  bitten,  as  the  rattlesnake  never  acts  on  the 
offensive,  but  tries  to  escape  unless  cornered  or 
frightened,  and  it  does  not  strike  without  giving 
warning. 

Having  wandered  over  these  mountains  at  short 
intervals  for  more  than  a  dozen  years,  and  never 
having  seen  a  living  rattlesnake  and  but  very  few 
dead  ones,  one  seldom  thinks  of  them.  The  only 
precaution  necessary  is  to  be  careful  about  going 
into  huckleberry  bushes  or  other  thickets  where  the 
growth  Is  so  close  that  you  cannot  see  the  ground. 
No  one  can  blame  a  snake  for  striking  If  it  Is  stepped 


THE   FORKS  OF   PIGEON   RIVER     289 

on,  also  when  pursuing  Rattlesnake  Knobs,  or 
Branches,  or  Ridges,  or  Dens,  one  may  as  well  look 
first  and  give  plenty  of  notice  of  his  approach.  But 
as  a  rule  one  does  not  go  to  such  places.  The  people 
know  where  they  are  and  carefully  avoid  them,  one 
man  who  had  killed  many  rattlesnakes  summing 
up  the  sentiment  of  the  mountains  when  he  said,  "  I 
am  not  afeard  of  a  knife,  or  a  gun,  or  a  varmint,  but 
I  am  afeard  of  a  snake." 

The  top  of  Cold  Mountain,  to  which  cattle  and 
sheep  are  dri\en  for  the  summer,  is  an  extensive 
pasture  of  blue-grass  and  white-clover,  where  a  large 
spring  of  water,  cold  and  delicious,  wells  forth.  To 
spend  a  summer  day  roaming  about  one  of  these 
high  balds  is  a  pleasure  one  cannot  repeat  too  often. 
In  the  splendid  exhilaration  of  the  air,  which  is  not 
thin  enough  to  be  oppressive,  and  through  the  cold 
tissues  of  which  the  sun  sends  a  delicious  flood  of 
warmth,  the  body  seems  taken  up  and  rejuvenated. 
And  where  else  is  the  sky  so  luminous,  the  clouds  so 
purely  white?  From  one  point  and  another  you  look 
out  over  a  world  of  mountains  many  of  which  are 
well-loved  and  familiar  friends.  The  most  beautiful 
wild  flowers  have  arranged  themselves  in  gardens  to 
please  you,  and  out  of  the  rocks  leap  sparkling  wa- 
ters still  more  to  refresh  you.  From  the  Forks  of  the 
Pigeon  how  many  of  these  charming  balds  can  be 
ascended  by  trails  known  only  to  the  kindly  nati\es, 
who  will  go  with  you  if  necessary  or  tell  you  the  way 
where  it  is  possible  for  you  to  go  alone ! 


XXVII 

PISGAH  AND   THE   BALSAMS 

PISGAH,  lying  between  Toxaway  and  Asheville, 
is  the  most  noticeable  and  the  favorite  moun- 
tain seen  from  Asheville.  Everybody  knows  it. 
Rising,  as  it  does,  above  the  other  heights,  its  beau- 
tiful form  outlined  against  the  sky,  it  inspires  a  feel- 
ing of  affection  in  those  who  see  it  day  after  day.  It 
is  the  highest  point  in  the  Pisgah  and  Tennessee 
ridges,  that  long  mountain  barrier  winding  in  a 
southwesterly  direction  from  Beaverdam  Creek,  a 
few  miles  from  Asheville,  to  Toxaway  Mountain, 
a  distance  of  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles.  There 
is  said  to  be  a  trail  along  the  whole  length  of  this 
crest,  a  sky  walk  to  be  envied  the  mortal  who  can 
take  it. 

It  does  not  detract  from  the  interest  one  feels  in 
Pisgah  to  know  that  it  has  retained  its  height  above 
other  mountains  of  the  region  because  its  rocks  are 
crystalline,  —  that,  in  short,  Pisgah  is  high  and 
strong  because  it  is  largely  composed  of  garnets,  of 
garnets  and  cyanite,  the  latter  one  will  remember 
being  very  closely  related  to  topaz. 

At  Garden  Creek,  Pisgah  often  comes  to  view  in 
your  walks,  and  from  Cruso,  near  where  the  trail 
goes  up  Cold  Mountain,  there  is  a  road  up  Pisgah, 
that  portion  of  the  mountain  now  being  included  in 


PISGAH   AND   THE   BALSAMS        291 

the  forest  attached  to  the  Biltmore  estate.  There  is 
also  an  automobile  road  from  Biltmore  to  Pisgah, 
a  forecast,  no  doubt,  of  what  will  be  true  of  many  a 
high  place  in  the  near  future. 

There  is  no  sweeter  road  anywhere  than  that  up 
Pisgah.  In  the  coves  and  clearings  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  the  people  live  in  the  homes  of  their  fore- 
fathers and  give  you  a  welcome  that  is  more  than 
cordial  if  you  choose  to  rest  awhile  on  their  porch,  or 
drink  from  their  spring,  and  they  will  urge  you  to 
stay  to  dinner  so  heartily,  that  only  the  thought  of 
finding  some  wind-swept,  sun-bathed  slope,  where 
you  can  sit  in  the  open  air  and  look  off  over  the  dis- 
tant mountains  while  you  eat  the  luncheon  provided 
at  your  last  stopping-place,  prevents  you  from  ac- 
cepting. Lying  on  the  ground  to  rest  and  maybe 
sleep  a  little  in  the  deep  stillness  of  nature,  you  think 
with  sympathy  of  the  woman  living  far  back  in  a 
certain  cove  from  which  she  never  emerged,  and 
who  in  reply  to  a  question,  answered,  "No,  I  don't 
want  to  go  away.  I  ain't  a  lonely-natured  person 
noway.    I  like  a  quiet  life." 

The  road  follows  up  Pisgah  Creek,  which,  after 
the  fashion  of  streams  here,  winds  back  and  forth, 
so  that  for  more  than  two  dozen  times  you  have  to 
cross  the  swift  water  on  those  marvelous  footways 
the  people  find  sufficient  for  their  own  use,  but  whose 
vagaries  present  difficulties  to  the  stranger. 

What  you  get  from  a  mountain  road  depends 
upon  how  you  go.  If  alone,  you  hear  and  see  and  feel 
things  that  you  never  hear  or  see  or  feel  with  even 


292       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  most  considerate  and  sympathetic  comrade. 
Your  comrade  you  need  for  the  halt  at  the  end  of 
the  day.  But  you  should  also  often  walk  alone. 
And  whether  alone  or  companioned,  you  must  never 
walk  right  on.  You  must  linger  along  and  listen 
attentively,  and  sniff  the  air  for  news,  and  you  must 
look,  not  only  at  the  clouds  and  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
at  the  distant  landscape  and  the  colors  on  the  near 
slopes,  but  you  must  look  at  the  ground.  For  there 
also  you  will  get  things  to  remember  when  the  doors 
are  shut  on  the  wander-life.  You  will  be  able  to 
recall,  for  instance,  that  brown  slope  where  in  the 
early  summer  you  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  round 
bright  eye  shining  out  near  the  ground  close  to  a  log. 
As  you  continue  to  look,  a  striped  and  speckled  form 
becomes  outlined  among  the  fallen  leaves,  the  sticks 
and  the  stones.  Ah,  yes!  —  a  ruffed  grouse,  but  why 
so  still?  Why  did  it  not  escape  at  your  approach? 
You  look  attentively  at  the  ground  close  about  you 
—  nothing — yes,  —  there  so  close  to  your  foot 
that  another  step  would  have  crushed  out  its  little 
life  is  a  round  brown  puffball  with  a  stripe  down  its 
back,  and  close  to  it  another,  and  another  and  an- 
other, until  you  have  detached  five  new  birdlings 
from  the  protective  coloring  of  the  ground.  There 
are  more,  you  know,  but  do  your  best  you  cannot 
find  them.  So  you  pick  up  the  two  nearest  you,  one 
after  the  other,  and  lay  them  in  the  palm  of  your 
hand.  They  show  no  sign  of  life  excepting  the  shin- 
ing wide-open  eyes.  They  are  just  hatched,  yet  here 
they  are,  the  accomplished  young  frauds,  exercising 


PISGAH   AND  THE   BALSAMS        293 

the  most  practiced  deceit,  no  doubt  secure  in  their 
faith  that  you  cannot  see  them,  although  you  have 
them  in  your  hand.  You  hold  them  thus  only  a  mo- 
ment, your  pleasure  in  the  contact  clouded  by 
thought  of  the  suffering  of  that  motionless  little 
mother  under  the  log.  Yielding  to  a  whimsical  im- 
pulse, you  place  a  light  kiss  on  the  top  of  each  little 
head,  then  lay  them  on  the  ground  side  by  side, 
and  retreat  backwards  at  some  distance,  and  watch 
to  see  them  go.  But  they  do  not  go.  You  stand 
with  your  eyes  on  that  one  spot  until  they  ache, 
and  then  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  you  look  off 
to  the  blue  mountains  beyond.  But  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, a  little  sound  like  a  quick  sigh  brings  you 
quickly  back  to  business.  You  focus  your  eyes  on 
the  spot  —  It  is  vacant!  You  know  it  is  the  spot, 
for  you  carefully  marked  it  In  your  mind ;  the  stone 
is  there  —  but  they  are  not.  Neither  is  that  bright 
eye  any  longer  visible  under  the  log.  They  fooled 
you,  after  all.  Not  the  slightest  sound,  the  least  mo- 
tion that  could  attract  attention,  and  they  have  van- 
ished very  much  like  a  dream.  They  have  fooled 
you?  They  think  so,  but  it  is  really  the  other  way, 
for  see,  those  two  you  held  In  your  hand  did  not 
really  escape  —  you  have  them  yet,  and  they  have 
never  been  able  to  grow  up  or  change  since  that 
day.  Two  little  downy  birds,  like  happy  dreams, 
must  run  about  the  pleasant  aisles  of  PIsgah  forest 
to  all  eternity  with  a  kiss  hovering  like  a  butter- 
fly above  each  little  head. 

The  ruffed  grouse,  "pheasant,"  the  people  call  it, 


294       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

is  native  to  these  woods  and  an  encounter  with  one 
is  always  a  surprise,  and  nearly  always  pleasant, 
though  you  once  got  a  shock  from  a  grouse  that 
must  pretty  nearly  have  balanced  the  bird's  own 
distress  of  mind.  It  happened  on  a  long,  steep  moun- 
tain path  one  spring  day.  Going  along  thinking  of 
anything  but  danger,  you  suddenly  stop  as  you  hear 
the  sharp  hiss  of  a  snake.  You  stand  perfectly  still 
and  search  the  ground  with  your  eyes.  You  see 
nothing,  and  all  is  silent  until  you  move,  when  again 
comes  that  terrible  danger  signal.  You  begin  to  feel 
shaky  at  thought  of  the  near  invisible  reptile,  no 
doubt  coiled  ready  to  strike,  when  something  moves 
from  over  a  fallen  log  and  your  startled  eyes  behold  a 
long  thin  thing  stretching  towards  you.  But  to  your 
infinite  relief  and  amusement  the  snake's  head  re- 
solves into  that  of  a  ruffed  grouse,  and  presently 
there  fairly  boils  up  over  the  log  such  a  mass  of  irate 
feathers  all  on  end,  and  outspread  wings  and  tail,  so 
crazy  looking  an  object,with  open  mouth  and  hissing 
tongue,  that  you  take  the  sufficiently  obvious  hint 
that  your  presence  is  not  desired,  and  pretending 
all  the  fear  the  bunch  of  feathers  thinks  it  is  inspir- 
ing, you  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  it  after  you,  swelling, 
hissing,  and  triumphant.  But  you  escape,  and  it  no 
doubt  goes  back  to  its  nest  all  self-complacency  and 
with  a  fine  tale  to  tell  those  children,  as  soon  as  they 
shall  be  hatched,  of  how  it  saved  their  lives  one  day 
and  drove  away  a  terrible  human  monster.  Yet  you 
wish  it  could  someway  know  how  that  monster  loved 
it  and  only  ran  away  to  please  it. 


PISGAH  AND  THE  BALSAMS       295 

Thinking  of  the  many  pleasant  encounters  you 
ha\c  had  in  bygone  days  with  the  woodland  folk, 
and  keeping  eyes  and  ears  alert  for  more,  you  follow 
up  the  winding  way  until  you  reach  the  bench  of  the 
mountain  where  Buck  Spring,  one  of  the  famous 
springs  of  the  mountains,  gushes  forth  large,  free- 
flowing,  and  icy  cold.  Near  it  now  stands  Mr.  Van- 
derbilt's  Buckspring  Lodge  on  the  edge  of  the  blufT 
that  looks  ofT  across  the  French  Broad  Valley  to  the 
Blue  Ridge  at  the  east  and  towards  Asheville  and 
its  background  of  mountains  at  the  north.  The 
waters  from  Pisgah  flow  into  the  Pigeon  River  on 
one  side,  but  into  the  French  Broad  on  the  other, 
and  directly  under  the  steep  cliffs  upon  the  top  of 
which  the  lodge  stands  is  that  charming,  far-famed 
level  of  the  Blue  Ridge  plateau  known  as  the  "  Pink 
Beds,"  because  of  the  gorgeous  garden  of  flowers  it 
becomes  in  the  springtime. 

There  is  every  variety  of  surface  on  Pisgah,  from 
dense  forest  growths  to  open  treeless  slopes,  bushy 
benches,  and  rocky  cliffs  —  and  everywhere  a  be- 
wildering variety  of  flowers.  On  each  mountain  you 
find  characteristic  flowers,  as  though  each  kept  its 
own  garden  somewhat  distinct  from  its  neighbors. 
Not  that  you  will  not  find  these  flowers  elsewhere, 
but  perhaps  nowhere  else  the  same  species  in  equal 
abundance.  And  each  mountain  you  remember 
because  of  some  great  floral  outburst  in  process  at 
the  time  of  your  visit,  so  that  when  you  think  of 
Pisgah,  for  instance,  it  is  covered  with  the  later  sum- 
mer flowers,  —  gardens  of  pink  and  white  turtle-head, 


296         THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

asters,  goldenrod,  dozens  of  well-loved  flower  forms 
in  luxuriance  abound,  as  well  as  some  you  do  not 
know,  —  instead  of  with  a  cloak  of  flaming  azaleas, 
or  wearing  a  crown  of  rose-bay,  as  would  have  been 
the  case  had  your  first  visit  been  earlier  in  the  season. 

From  the  top  of  Pisgah  you  get  a  wide  view,  and  a 
very  beautiful  one,  though  perhaps  the  best  is  that 
plunge  of  the  senses  down  among  the  rhododendrons, 
kalmias,  and  tree-tops  that  cover  all  the  near  slopes 
with  a  lovely  surface  of  green,  in  which  deep  shadows 
lurk,  and  over  which  the  light  plays  so  beautifully. 

To  the  west  from  Pisgah,  across  the  cul-de-sac  in 
which  lie  the  Forks  of  the  Pigeon  and  the  high  form 
of  Cold  Mountain,  rise  the  Balsam  Mountains,  and 
from  Garden  Creek,  that  lies  about  halfway  between 
Pisgah  and  the  Balsams,  a  road  leads  through  Davis 
Gap  and  on  to  Waynesville  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
Balsam  Mountains.  As  one  follows  this  winding 
road,  beautiful  views  of  Pisgah  come  and  go,  as  also 
of  Cold  Mountain,  Sam  Knob,  Lickstone  Bald,  and 
other  familiar  forms. 

Then,  upon  crossing  the  Davis  Gap,  the  glorious 
high  Balsams  rise  up  to  view.  The  road  passes  a 
picturesque  old  mill  with  its  tall  wheel,  where  one 
stops  to  drink  from  the  cold  spring,  and  soon  after 
reaches  Waynesville,  which  has  long  been  a  noted 
summer  resort  because  of  its  elevation  of  over  twen- 
ty-six hundred  feet,  its  beautiful  outlooks,  and  the 
fact  that  it  lies  on  the  railroad. 

Waynesville  is  not  on  the  Pigeon  River,  but  in  the 
fertile  and  charming  valley  of  Richland  Creek  which 


PISGAH   AND  THE  BALSAMS        297 

enters  the  Pigeon  a  little  to  the  north  of  here.  The 
village  lies,  as  it  were,  in  a  nest  of  the  Balsam  Moun- 
tains, which  rise  so  close  about  it  that  one  cannot  see 
them  to  advantage,  but  from  various  points  in  the 
village  one  can  look  out  towards  the  Newfound 
Mountains  where  the  fine  large  mass  of  the  Crab- 
tree  Bald  immediately  attracts  the  eye.  Crabtree 
Mountain!  —  and  below  it  and  running  half  around 
it  Crabtree  Creek  —  what  a  picture  rises  before  the 
imagination  at  those  two  names!  For  the  wild  crab 
is  one  of  the  most  precious  gems  of  the  forest.  In  the 
spring  it  blossoms,  the  first  you  know  of  this  being 
the  exquisite  fragrance  that  pervades  the  woods.  If, 
then,  you  go  abroad  you  will  find  the  wild  orchards 
loaded  with  flowers  like  apple-blossoms,  excepting 
that  they  are  old-rose  in  color,  delicately  shaded 
with  clear  pink  and  white.  No  tree  is  more  wonder- 
ful in  appearance,  and  none  is  so  wonderful  in  fra- 
grance. The  perfume,  powerful  yet  delicate  and 
very  refreshing,  rises  in  a  vast  cloud  of  incense  from 
the  fire  of  the  flowers  until  the  whole  forest  seems 
steeped  in  it.  And  if  you  choose  to  press  a  few  of 
these  ardent  blossoms  between  the  leaves  of  a  book, 
or  drop  them  among  your  papers  or  your  clothes, 
you  will  have  reason  to  remember  the  ecstatic 
blooming  of  the  crab  tree  for  a  very  long  time. 

The  wild  crab  is  not  the  only  apple  found  in  this 
fortunate  land,  for  the  orchards  of  Waynesville  and 
the  country  roundabout  yield  apples  that  would  not 
discredit  the  proud  apple  states  of  the  North.  In- 
deed, when  we  of  Traumfest  get  a  particular!}-  good 


298       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

apple  the  question  some  of  us  ask  is,  "Did  it  come 
from  Waynesville  or  New  York?" 

There  is  a  white  sulphur  spring  near  Waynesville, 
but  that  which  most  powerfully  attracts  the  visitor 
is  its  nearness  to  the  Balsams,  into  whose  recesses 
one  can  penetrate  by  paths  and  trails  to  the  very 
haunts  of  the  bear,  only  that  poor  Bruin  has  been  so 
driven  from  pillar  to  post  that  he  has  very  few 
haunts  left.  The  Balsams  are  among  the  highest 
remaining  of  these  once  towering  mountains,  and 
they,  like  Pisgah,  owe  their  preservation  to  the 
cyanite  and  garnet  In  their  rocks. 

The  Balsams,  as  well  as  the  Blacks,  are  named 
from  the  mantle  of  balsam  firs  that  covers  all  their 
higher  parts,  so  dark-green  as  to  look  black  at  times, 
although  in  the  distance  the  magic  light  causes  them 
to  assume  that  wonderful  blue  color  which  is  the 
prerogative  of  all  these  delectable  heights.  Balsam 
trees  as  a  rule  cover  the  higher  slopes  of  all  the 
mountains  that  rise  above  fifty-five  hundred  feet, 
sometimes  on  the  highest  ones  running  down  the 
ravines  much  lower  than  that.  These  wide  black 
mantles  laid  over  the  shoulders  of  the  high  moun- 
tains give  strength  to  the  landscape.  As  seen  from 
below,  they  seem  completely  to  envelop  the  moun- 
tains, but  at  a  higher  elevation,  or  upon  approaching 
the  summits,  one  discovers  that  the  mountain-top 
is  always  treeless.  This  is  true  of  the  higher  moun- 
tains, whether  they  are  fir-clad  or  not,  the  "bald" 
varying  in  size  from  a  few  yards  across  on  some 
mountains  to  rolling  meadows  hundreds  of  acres  in 


PISGAH   AND  THE   BALSAMS        299 

extent  on  others.  The  large  balds,  such  as  that  of 
the  Roan,  the  Big  Yellow,  and  other  well-known 
forms,  also  give  character  and  added  beauty  to  the 
landscape,  in  which  they  appear  like  peaceful  islands 
in  the  billowing  sea  of  tree-clad  mountains. 

There  is  a  road  leading  out  of  \Vaynes\  illc  and  up 
to  what  is  known  as  the  Eagle's  Nest,  on  one  of  the 
Junaluska  spurs  of  the  Balsam  Mountains.  This 
road,  which  is  brown  in  color  instead  of  red,  winds 
up  through  a  forest  of  hardwood  trees,  and  towards 
the  top  there  opens  out  a  wide,  gently  concave  mea- 
dow of  mingled  blue-grass  and  white-clover,  one  of 
those  beautiful  natural  meadows  that  occur  so  fre- 
quently on  the  slopes  of  the  higher  mountains,  and 
where  the  fragrance  of  white-clover  mingling  sud- 
denly with  the  manifold  sweet  odors  of  the  forest 
gives  one  a  sensation  of  waking  into  the  past  inter- 
penetrated with  the  events  of  the  present. 

There  is  a  hotel  at  the  top  near  a  large  spring  of 
cold  water  that  wells  forth  close  to  a  fine  outlook,  as 
though  nature  had  planned  it  that  way  on  purpose. 
There,  before  your  eyes,  Pisgah,  Cold  .Mountain, 
Shining  Rock,  Lickstone,  and  the  other  balds  we 
know  so  well,  stand  amidst  the  lesser  mountains; 
and  that  far  blue  line  to  the  southwest  between 
nearer  heights  they  tell  us  is  Cullowhec  Mountain. 
But  that  which  most  strongly  affects  one  here  is  the 
colors  of  the  balsams  that  are  close  enough  for  you 
to  look  into  the  deep,  soft  hollows  that  lie  on  the 
wonderful  green  of  the  slopes  like  lakes  of  midnight 
blackness. 


300       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Not  far  from  the  Eagle's  Nest  is  another  outlook, 
to  the  north  this  time,  whence  you  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  Smokies,  and  can  look  off  to  Craggy  and  Mount 
Mitchell,  while  down  at  your  feet  lies  the  picturesque 
little  valley  of  Jonathan's  Creek;  but  here,  too,  the 
eye  turns  ever  to  the  massive  form  of  one  of  the 
near  Balsam  Mountains,  big  Cataluchee,  with  its 
wonderful  deep  colors. 

Walking  over  a  beautiful  natural  meadow  to  get  a 
full  view  of  Plott's  Balsams,  you  encounter  such 
diversions  as  red  columbine,  gardens  of  pink  turtle- 
head,  fragrant  and  charming  evening  primroses, 
fire-pinks,  phlox,  lilies,  and  —  sourwood,  with  its 
incomparable  fragrance.  The  Plott  Balsams  that 
run  southwest  from  here  in  a  short  and  massive 
range  are  named  from  a  family  early  inhabiting  this 
region  and  among  whom  were  several  noted  hunters. 
The  grandfather  of  the  present  generation,  some  of 
whom  still  live  up  the  wild  and  picturesque  Plott 
Creek,  killed  a  panther  where  the  hotel  now  stands; 
but  a  hunter's  fame  here  rested  on  the  number  of 
bearskins  he  could  show,  to  hunt  these  dangerous 
animals  with  the  primitive  weapons  of  early  days 
being  well  considered  the  true  test  of  a  man's  cour- 
age. But  though  dangerous  when  brought  to  bay, 
the  brown  bears  of  the  mountains  are  quite  harmless 
if  let  alone.  "There  has  n't  a  bear  in  this  country 
hurt  a  man  In  my  memory,  or  my  father's  or  my 
grandfather's,"  an  elderly  man  assures  you;  and  a 
hunter  then  present  adds,  "A  bear  ain't  goln'  to 
hurt  a  man  noway  unless  he's  hemmed,  then  he'll 


PISGAH   AND  THE   BALSAMS        301 

kill  you."  There  are  many  bear  stories  yet  told, 
though  the  most  famous  of  the  old  hunters  are  no 
longer  here  to  tell  them.  The  railway  train,  thunder- 
ing under  the  very  walls  of  the  Balsams  and  climbing 
across  them  through  the  high  Balsam  Gap,  bespeaks 
a  new  era  when  people  come  in  throngs  to  the 
mountains  for  other  purposes  than  bear-hunting. 


XXVIII 

MOUNT  MITCHELL 

FROM  the  top  of  Tryon  Mountain  on  a  fair 
spring  day,  a  snow-white  cloud  was  seen  lying 
above  the  northern  horizon.  It  was  so  beautiful  in 
the  pure  blue  of  the  sky  that  the  eye  involuntarily 
turned  to  it  again  and  again;  and  then,  some  trick 
of  the  light  revealed  an  opalescent  world  below,  and 
all  at  once  one  realized  that  the  cloud  was  the  snow- 
covered  crest  of  the  Black  Mountains,  which  can  be 
seen  from  Tryon  Peak  on  a  clear  day. 

After  this  one  saw  the  Black  Mountains  in  the 
distance,  like  the  Smokies  ethereally  blue  or  again 
pearly  white.  But  unlike  the  impression  created  by 
the  Smokies,  this  of  the  Blacks  vanished  upon  near 
acquaintance,  perhaps  in  part  because  the  name 
stamped  another  vision  on  the  mind.  It  is  hard  to 
escape  the  influence  of  a  name,  and  the  Black  Moun- 
tains live  in  your  memory  as  a  group  of  night-black 
domes  topping  a  long  black  mountain  crest  that 
lightens  to  varied  shades  of  green  as  it  descends 
towards  the  valleys,  or  else  loses  itself  below  in  depths 
of  blue  shadows,  which  is  the  way  it  appears  when 
one  is  near  it. 

Nowhere  is  the  rounded  contour  of  the  Southern 
mountains  so  striking  as  in  the  high  balsam-covered 
summits.   Mitchell's  High  Peak,  as  it  is  now  called. 


MOUNT   MITCHELL  303 

used  to  be  the  Black  Dome,  a  name  poetical  and  pro- 
foundly descriptive.  When  near  enough,  perhaps 
on  some  neighboring  slope  or  summit,  the  balsam- 
covered  mountains  are  impressive  to  solemnity. 
The  dark,  unbroken  mantle  of  fir  trees  covering  all 
heights  and  hollows  throws  back  the  light  with 
singular  depth  and  softness,  the  color  varying  from 
deepest  green  to  inky  black,  in  which  lie  intense 
indigo  shadows. 

The  range  of  the  Black  Mountains,  which  is  only 
fifteen  miles  in  length,  has,  it  will  be  remembered, 
thirteen  summits  above  six  thousand  feet  high. 
This  short,  high  range,  standing  on  a  base  less  than 
five  miles  wide,  its  slopes  sweeping  up  from  either 
side  to  the  crests  more  than  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  surrounding  valley  bottoms,  is,  wherever 
visible,  the  most  notable  feature  in  the  landscape. 

It  runs  north  and  south,  its  southern  extremity 
merging  into  the  Blue  Ridge,  which  here,  in  its  very 
irregular  windings,  comes  so  close  to  the  Black 
Mountains  as  to  leave  only  a  narrow  and  deep  val- 
ley, that  of  the  South  Toe  River,  between.  Two 
of  the  highest  points  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  Graybeard 
and  the  Pinnacle,  noted  landmarks,  lie  close  to  the 
Blacks. 

To  the  southwest  of  the  Black  Mountains,  practi- 
cally a  continuation  of  them,  lies  the  short  high 
chain  of  the  Great  Craggy  IVIountains  in  which 
Craggy  Dome  and  Bullhead  Mountain  rise,  in  the 
one  case  a  little  above  six  thousand  feet,  in  the  other, 
a  little  below.  To  the  west  of  the  Black  Mountain 


304       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

Range,  tightly  inclosing  the  narrow  Cane  River 
Valley,  is  a  jumble  of  wild  mountains,  among  which 
Yeates  Knob  reaches  an  elevation  of  six  thousand 
feet,  while  to  the  north  of  the  range  lies  the  valley 
of  Little  Crabtree  Creek  between  the  Blacks  and  the 
rugged  mountains  beyond.  Hence  the  valleys  that 
nearly  surround  the  Black  Mountains  are  deep  and 
narrow,  and  the  streams  rushing  through  them  are 
very  swift,  clear,  and,  from  the  rapidity  with  which 
they  rise  during  a  storm,  dangerous,  the  Estatoe,  or 
Toe  River,  as  it  is  commonly  called,  and  its  branches 
being  among  the  most  dangerous  of  the  mountain 
streams. 

There  is  the  same  glorious  wildness  in  the  Black 
Mountain  country  that  one  feels  in  the  regions  of 
the  Smokies  and  the  Balsams ;  and  whoever  ascends 
the  Black  Mountains,  excepting  perhaps  over  the 
trail  to  Mount  Mitchell,  unless  he  is  a  mountaineer 
of  experience,  must  take  a  guide  or  run  the  risk  of 
getting  lost  in  the  rhododendrons  that  heavily  clothe 
the  slopes  of  the  mountain.  To  get  lost  in  the  rho- 
dodendron on  one  of  these  big  mountains,  where  the 
foliage  is  too  dense  for  one  to  see  the  sky,  and  where 
the  strong,  twisted  limbs  form  a  labyrinth  in  places 
utterly  impassable,  is  an  experience  none  would 
court,  for,  besides  the  trap  woven  by  the  rhododen- 
dron limbs,  wild  streams  rush  down,  ledges  and 
chasms  obstruct  the  way,  and  fogs,  the  real  danger 
in  the  mountains,  are  frequent. 

But  on  a  pleasant  summer  day  what  Is  more  de- 
lightful than  a  climb  to  the  top  of  Mount  Mitchell! 


MOUNT  MITCHELL  305 

One  can  easily  get  to  the  Black  Mountain  country 
by  way  of  the  railroad  that  now  crosses  the  Blue 
Ridge  a  few  miles  to  the  north  of  there ;  or  one  can 
follow  the  old  route  from  the  Black  Mountain  Sta- 
tion in  the  Swannanoa  Valley,  taking  a  long  ride  to 
the  summit  of  Mount  Mitchell  and  spending  the 
night  in  a  cave;  or  there  is  that  tAvo  days'  drive  from 
Asheville  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  over  roads 
which,  speaking  after  the  fashion  of  the  Italians, 
are  carriageable  —  though  barely  so.  The  road, 
good  enough  for  some  miles  out  of  Asheville,  runs 
northward  to  the  Ivy  River  up  which  it  follows 
through  the  "Ivy  Country,"  so  named  because  of 
the  luxuriance  with  which  the  mountain  laurel  or 
"ivy"  densely  covered  this  region. 

At  the  forks  of  the  river  the  road  goes  up  the 
North  l\y,  where  the  Craggy  Mountains  loom  into 
view  at  the  gaps,  and  where  the  valley,  squeezed 
tightly  in  between  the  steep  sides  of  the  mountains,  is 
as  wild  as  a  valley  can  be  that  contains  picturesque 
little  houses  and  has  its  slopes  all  tawny  with  chest- 
nut bloom.  It  is  a  wild  valley  where  sourwood  loads 
the  air  with  dainty  perfume,  morning-glories  twine 
smilingly  about  the  bushes,  and  deep-red  or  lavender 
bee-balm  makes  flower-gardens  of  the  damp  places. 

The  road,  zigzagging  endlessly  about,  finally  gets 
up  out  of  this  valley,  crosses  a  wide  gap,  and  de- 
scends into  the  Cane  River  X^alley  near  the  house 
of  Big  Tom  Wilson,  the  most  famous  bear-hunter  of 
this  region.  Continuing  up  Cane  River  for  a  few 
miles  you  cross  a  picturesque  ford  and  soon  reach 


3o6       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  house  of  Adolphus  Wilson,  Big  Tom's  son,  at  the 
foot  of  Mount  Mitchell.  It  is  very  wild  here,  the 
glorious  wildness  of  this  country  where  everything 
is  softened  and  sweetened  by  the  beautiful  growths 
and  the  touch  of  the  sun  in  the  sparkling  air.  Near 
the  house  the  woods  are  fine,  the  path  through  them 
takes  you  past  basins  of  clear  green  water  and  past 
damp  places  full  of  flowers  and  down  to  a  stream  that 
hastens  along,  broad,  swift,  and  clear,  and  famous  for 
its  trout. 

The  Black  Mountain  country  seems  to  you  differ- 
ent from  the  country  south  of  Asheville.  Indeed,  all 
this  northern  region  has  a  quality  of  its  own.  It 
seems  so  free,  so  superbly  wild,  so  very  remote  from 
the  world,  and  for  ages  it  has  been  remote,  there 
having  been  no  railroad  within  easy  reach  until  very 
lately. 

One  advantage  of  settling  down  for  a  while  in  the 
Black  Mountain  country  Is  that  you  will  be  more 
certain  to  visit  Mount  Mitchell  In  good  weather; 
you  can  start  when  the  right  morning  dawns.  For 
this  is  a  rainy  country;  the  clouds  hug  close  about 
the  tops  of  the  mountains  sometimes  weeks  in  suc- 
cession; so  that  It  is  better  to  go  to  this  region  im- 
mediately after  a  general  storm  and  there  await  the 
one  perfect  day.  Not  that  this  whole  region  is  con- 
stantly deluged;  on  the  contrary,  the  valleys  are 
often  clear  when  the  mountain-tops  are  smothered 
In  clouds. 

One  can  easily  walk  to  the  top  of  Mount  Mitchell, 
but  it  will  be  well,  if  you  mean  to  stay,  to  have  your 


MOUNT   MITCHELL  307 

blankets  and  provisions  for  the  night  taken  up  on 
horseback.  The  best  way  is  to  let  the  guide  go  ahead, 
and  then  loiter  on  as  you  please,  the  hoof-marks 
affording  a  sure  protection  against  getting  lost. 
With  a  long  staff  you  can  cross  the  rushing  trout 
stream  dry  shod  on  the  projecting  rocks,  after  which 
you  begin  a  most  joyous  ascent  into  the  clouds. 

The  lower  part  of  the  mountain  is  co\ercd  with 
hardwood  trees,  the  path  leading  past  a  tulip  tree 
that  twenty  years  ago  measured  over  thirty-three 
feet  in  circumference  —  no  one  seems  to  have  had 
the  "ambition"  to  measure  it  since.  This  majestic 
column  had  a  narrow  escape  from  destruction  a  few 
years  ago  when  a  mountaineer  was  with  difficulty 
dissuaded  from  chopping  into  it  to  get  an  imaginary 
bee's  nest.  The  fine  natural  forest  is  composed  of 
many  kinds  of  trees,  among  which  the  path  winds, 
now  in  the  woods,  now  across  a  stream,  now  through 
an  open  glade.  The  air,  heavy  with  the  honey-like 
odor  of  linden  trees  in  full  bloom  above  your  head, 
murmurs  with  the  myriads  of  bees  that  hover  about 
the  flowers.  The  uneven  floor  of  the  forest  is  covered 
with  moss  and  large  violet  leaves.  The  white  flower 
clusters  of  treelike  rhododendrons  gleam  on  the 
slopes.  Laurel  presents  dense  tangles  on  all  sides. 
Hemlocks  darken  the  way,  ferns  and  moss  every- 
where carpeting  the  earth  beneath  them. 

About  three  miles  up,  you  pass  through  what  is 
known  as  the  beech  nursery,  a  level  bench  grown 
with  small  beeches  where  grass  and  flowers  cover  the 
floor,  a  friendly  vestibule  to  the  dark  forest  that  lies 


308       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

above.  For  a  little  beyond  here  you  enter  the  bal- 
sams, and  it  is  like  entering  another  world,  for  in  the 
balsam  groves  no  other  trees  grow,  and  the  young 
trees  and  the  bushes  that  so  lighten  other  forests  are 
entirely  lacking  here.  The  tall,  dark  columns  of  the 
trees  stand  so  close  together  that  looking  ahead 
there  seems  scarcely  room  to  pass.  The  overarching 
roof  shuts  out  the  light.  The  pillared  aisles  are  dark 
and  sombre.  A  deep-green,  fernlike  moss  covers  the 
ground  with  an  unbroken  surface.  This  wonderful 
moss,  sometimes  a  foot  thick,  curiously  intensifies 
the  loneliness  of  the  forest.  Over  humps  and  hollows 
the  flawless  mantle  lies,  deep,  soft,  interminable, 
here  and  there  patterned  with  lighter  green  oxalis 
leaves,  always  moist,  always  sucking  in  and  holding 
fast  the  clouds  that  enter,  the  rains  that  fall.  Contin- 
ually saturated  with  the  mists  of  heaven  this  ex- 
quisite monster  with  its  insatiable  pure  desire  be- 
comes the  constantly  renewing  mother  of  the  rivu- 
lets that  trickle  through  the  mossy  carpet,  uniting 
to  descend  in  crystal  streams  to  the  earth  below. 

This  still,  dark  forest,  its  sombre  aisles  unlighted 
by  flowers,  unwarmed  by  the  sun,  covering  immense 
spaces  of  the  upper  world,  seems  to  exist  for  itself 
alone,  to  resent,  as  it  were,  the  intrusion  of  human 
life  into  its  mysteries.  But  it  does  not  exist  for  itself. 
It  is  lonely  because  absorbed  with  the  gigantic  task 
of  endlessly  and  without  rest  transforming  the  clouds 
into  the  life-giving  streams  of  the  plains.  For  man 
to  slaughter  the  trees  and  tear  that  marvelous  veil 
of  moss  would  be  to  strip  fertility  from  the  cotton- 


MOUNT   MITCHELL  309 

and  the  cornfields  that  lie  thirsting  from  the  moun- 
tains to  the  sea. 

Ascending  through  the  balsam  forests  one  seems 
under  the  spell  of  the  Black  Dome.  The  Black 
Mountains  hav^e  received  their  baptism.  No  matter 
how  delicately  blue  and  ethereal  distance  may  paint 
them,  to  think  of  them  or  to  see  them  must  ever 
after  recall  these  sombre  depths  beneath  the  dark 
boughs.  The  path  is  wet  and  muddy  in  places,  and 
also  steep,  but  at  last  you  pass  up  out  of  the  dark 
balsams  into  a  sunny  meadow  where  blue  eyebrights 
look  up  from  the  grass,  and  from  which  a  stony  trail 
bordered  with  rose-bay  leads  through  stunted  firs 
to  the  open  top,  where  a  monument  standing  alone 
on  the  very  summit  of  the  mountain  gives  a  feeling 
of  solemnity  to  the  place.  It  was  erected  here  in 
1888  to  the  memory,  as  the  legend  on  the  side  reads, 
of  the  "Rev.  Elisha  Mitchell,  D.D.,  who,  after  being 
for  thirty-nine  years  a  professor  in  the  Lmiversity  of 
North  Carolina,  lost  his  life  in  the  scientific  explor- 
ation of  this  mountain,  in  the  sixty-fourth  year  of  his 
age,  June  27th,  1857." 

Dr.  Mitchell,  being  greatly  attached  to  the  moun- 
tain, then  called  Black  Dome,  and  convinced  that  it 
was  the  highest  in  the  Appalachians,  had  often  been 
to  the  top  to  make  his  observ^ations  and  prove  his 
theory.  One  day  he  went  up  alone,  and  did  not  re- 
turn at  the  appointed  time.  As  soon  as  this  became 
known,  search  was  made,  men  and  even  women  col- 
lecting from  far  and  near,  for  Dr.  Mitchell  was 
greatly  loved.   The  search,  led  by  several  old  bear 


310       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

hunters,  was  finally  given  up  when  Dr.  Mitchell's 
son,  according  to  Big  Tom,  said  to  the  men,  "I  give 
you  a  thousand  thanks,  but  please  hunt  again  to- 
morrow." Upon  which  Big  Tom  volunteered  to  take 
the  lead  and  it  is  said  he  went  searching  for  the  miss- 
ing man  crying  all  the  way. 

The  first  trace  was  found  eleven  days  after  the 
disappearance,  when  Big  Tom,  sure  of  signs  that  no 
one  less  experienced  in  woodcraft  could  have  seen, 
the  mark  of  heel- tacks  on  a  root,  a  stone  displaced, 
weeds  bent,  a  mark  on  a  rotten  log,  went  from  point 
to  point  until  he  saw  the  missing  man's  hat  on  a  log 
by  a  streamside.  Above  was  a  deep  pool  at  the  foot 
of  a  waterfall  —  the  hat  had  floated  down  from  there. 
Big  Tom  at  this  point  tells  the  story  thus.  "  I  yelled 
and  they  answered  me.  They  came  on.  '  I  've  found 
his  hat.'  They  all  huddled  up.  And  I  walked  on  a 
log  and  saw  him.  '  Come  around,  boys,  poor  old  fel- 
ler, here  he  is.'  'Have  you  found  him?'  '  I  have  — '" 
and  old  Tom's  voice  breaks  and  the  tears  are  stream- 
ing down  his  face.  Dr.  Mitchell,  although  so  well 
acquainted  with  the  mountain,  was  believed  to  have 
become  lost  in  a  fog  and  to  have  fallen  over  the  preci- 
pice above  the  cataract  whose  icy  water  kept  the 
body  in  perfect  condition  until  it  was  found.  It  was 
finally  buried  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  so  dear 
to  him,  and  whose  name  was  changed  in  his  honor. 

Big  Tom  was  the  most  famous  bear  hunter  in  this 
region,  but  when  we  saw  him  years  ago  his  hunting 
days  were  over,  and  his  tall  form  was  bent  with  age, 
but  he  loved  to  tell  of  the  by-gone  days  and  his  bear 


MOUNT   MITCHELL  311 

hunts,  and  to  show  you  the  heavy,  old-fashioned 
rifle  he  prized  above  all  modern  inventions.  But 
best  of  all  the  old  man  loved  to  tell  of  how  they  went 
in  search  of  Dr.  Mitchell  and  found  him  looking  as 
natural  as  life  in  the  pure  water  of  the  mountain 
pool.  So  strong  an  impression  has  this  brave  and 
gentle  old  hunter  made  upon  his  community  that  the 
spot  where  his  little  house  stands  in  the  Cane  River 
Valley  is  marked  on  the  government  map  —  "Big 
Tom  Wilson's." 

The  extreme  top  of  Mount  Mitchell  is  bare  of 
trees  excepting  a  few  stunted  firs;  but  yellow  St. 
Johnswort  blooms  in  cheerful  profusion  over  the 
rocks  that  are  daintily  fringed  with  saxifrage  and 
sedum,  a  few  twisted  rose-bays  show  traces  of  earlier 
bloom,  and  prickly  gooseberry  bushes  are  maturing 
fruit  for  the  birds,  while  sounds  in  the  leaves  and  a 
flutter  of  wings  betray  the  presence  of  a  flock  of  j un- 
cos. On  all  sides  the  dark  fir-clad  slopes  descend  into 
the  shadows  below,  where  streams  rush  through  ra- 
vines choked  full  of  rhododendrons,  and  mossy 
slopes  are  impenetrable  with  laurel.  Below  the  firs 
glorious  hardwood  trees  cover  the  mountain-sides, 
the  ravines,  and  the  valleys,  their  intermingling  hues 
of  green  blended  and  lost  in  tremendous  depths  of 
blue  or  purple  spaces. 

The  view  from  the  summit,  off  over  the  ocean  of 
land  that  rolls  in  stormy  waves  to  the  far  horizon,  is 
stupendous.  Beyond  the  impressive  and  dark 
masses  of  the  near  heights,  the  great  mountains  of 
the  region,  from  the  Grandfather  to  the  Smokies, 


312        THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

crowd  the  scene,  melting  as  they  recede  into  blue  and 
misty  shapes.  Past  the  strong  headlands  of  Craggy 
and  the  Blue  Ridge,  the  mountains  towards  the 
south  subside  to  rise  again  in  far  blue  domes  and  pin- 
nacles. Cultivated  valleys,  beautiful  balds,  uprising 
slopes,  long  curving  lines,  overlapping  summits,  — 
it  is  difficult  to  disengage  individual  forms  from  the 
wonderfully  blended  whole.  And  here  as  elsewhere 
that  which  most  moves  the  senses  is  the  sweep  of  the 
near  majestic  slopes  down  into  the  deep  blue  spaces. 

The  cave  near  the  top  of  the  mountain  is  formed 
by  an  overhanging  ledge,  and  here  it  is  customary, 
for  those  wishing  to  watch  the  sunrise  from  the  sum- 
mit, to  spend  the  night.  And  it  is  worth  the  effort, 
even  if  one  only  sees  the  mountains  emerge  from  the 
clouds  for  a  moment  to  be  again  swallowed  up  by 
them,  for  it  is  seldom  that  the  visitor  gets  more  than 
a  glimpse  of  the  whole  world  at  one  time,  from 
Mitchell's  cloud-capped  peak.  It  was  in  this  cave  on 
top  of  Mount  Mitchell  that  one  once  arrived  in  a 
pouring  rain,  after  a  perilous  climb  up  the  eastern 
slope,  to  find,  as  sole  trace  of  former  visitors,  a  little 
can  partly  full  of  condensed  milk,  which  saved,  not 
one's  own  life,  but  that  of  a  young  squirrel  rescued 
on  the  way  up,  and  who  became  the  hero  of  many 
pleasant  subsequent  adventures. 

The  Black  Mountain  Country  is  very  wild,  and 
also  very  beautiful,  the  ascent  of  Mount  Mitchell 
being  but  one  of  many  reasons  for  going  there.  The 
streams  are  crystal  clear,  and  everywhere  pictur- 
esque houses  are  hidden  away  In  the  coves  and  val- 


MOUNT   MITCHELL  313 

leys  from  which  one  gets  superb  views  of  the  cloud- 
capped  mountains  that  lie  on  all  sides.  There  is  no 
more  romantically  beautiful  valley  in  the  moun- 
tains than  that  of  Cane  River,  which,  in  its  upper 
part,  is  over  three  thousand  feet  high,  and  nowhere 
falls  below  twenty-five  hundred  feet.  It  runs  along 
the  whole  western  base  of  the  Black  Mountain 
Range,  and  from  it  one  sees  round-pointed  moun- 
tains delightfully  grouped  in  the  landscape,  and 
quaint  houses  placed  in  a  superb  setting  of  moun- 
tains and  streams.  Cane  River  is  named  from  the 
heavy  canebrakes  that  clothe  its  banks  in  places, 
supplying  fishpoles,  pipestems,  and  reeds  for  the 
loom,  but  the  river  valley  is  more  noted  for  the 
products  of  its  farms  —  grain,  grass,  and  apples. 
No  one  can  visit  this  region  in  the  summertime 
without  noticing  the  orchards  loaded  with  hand- 
some apples,  fruit  of  so  fine  a  quality  that  it  took  a 
prize  at  the  Paris  Exposition,  the  people  tell  you 
with  pride.  The  land  in  the  Cane  River  \'alley  is 
valuable,  not  only  because  it  is  fertile,  but  because 
the  people  love  it  so.  One  man  we  were  told  refused 
a  hundred  dollars  an  acre  for  his  farm  because  "he 
was  that  foolish  over  it."  And  the  inhabitants  of 
the  valley  are  fine  and  friendly,  as  you  would  expect 
of  people  who  so  love  their  homes. 

Up  Cattail  Branch,  and  doubtless  elsewhere,  you 
can  yet  find  men  able  to  fell  a  tree  and  with  the 
primitive  whipsaw  convert  it  into  boards  on  the 
spot,  and  in  the  Black  Mountain  country*  one  has 
seen  a  man  sitting  under  a  tree  in  front  of  his  house 


314       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

shaving  shingles  by  hand,  those  broad,  strong  shin- 
gles that  add  so  much  to  the  picturesqueness  of  a 
log  house,  and  that  last  forever. 

As  you  drive  on  down  Cane  River,  now  along  the 
bank,  now  crossing  a  wide  ford,  you  see  a  village 
ahead  of  you  very  beautifully  placed  in  an  opening 
between  surrounding  mountains.  This  is  Burnsville, 
one  of  the  most  important  and  interesting  mountain 
villages  north  of  Asheville.  Here  are  schools  as  well 
as  hotels,  and  from  points  in  and  near  the  village  are 
superb  views  of  the  high  mountains.  Within  a  short 
time  Burnsville  has  come  into  easy  communication 
with  the  outer  world  by  way  of  the  railroad  that 
crosses  the  mountains  a  few  miles  to  the  north  of 
here,  and  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  this  gem  of  the 
mountains  will  not  be  overlooked  by  those  who  are 
on  the  way  with  money  and  love  and  knowledge  to 
help  transform  the  wilderness  for  the  few  into  an 
earthly  paradise  for  the  many. 


XXIX 

THE   FORKS   OF    THE    RIVER  TOE 

THE  Estatoe  should  have'  kept  its  full  name, 
but  as  the  matter  was  not  attended  to  in 
time,  so  that  the  river  went  down  on  the  govern- 
ment maps  as  the  '*Toe,"  it  will  probably  be  long 
before  the  mistake  is  corrected. 

The  South  Toe  skirts  the  eastern  base  of  the 
Black  Mountains  as  Cane  River  skirts  the  western 
base.  The  North  Toe,  a  long  and  winding  stream, 
carries  the  waters  from  one  side  of  the  steep  and 
high  Yellow  Mountain  region,  in  places  forcing  its 
way  through  narrow  gorges,  and  joins  the  South 
Toe  a  few  miles  east  of  Burnsville,  the  resulting 
river  being  known  as  the  Toe.  The  Cane  River 
finally  enters  the  Toe,  the  tw^o  forming  the  Noli- 
chucky  River. 

While  the  Cane  River  Valley  is  comparatively 
well  peopled,  the  wild  valley  of  the  South  Toe  has  as 
yet  few  inhabitants,  but  you  will  want  to  go  there 
because  the  river,  strong  and  wild  and  clear  as  cr>'s- 
tal,  has  coming  into  it  the  merriest  of  trout  brooks 
straight  down  from  the  sky,  and  because  the  valley 
itself  is  a  most  glorious  wilderness,  to  be  in  which 
gives  one  a  feeling  of  having  escaped.  Enormous 
trees  grow  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  —  oaks, 
chestnuts,  beeches,  and  magnolias  mingling  their 


3i6       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

foliage  above  your  head  as  you  wander  along  the 
woodland  paths  where  brooks  murmur  among  the 
ferns,  and  the  rhododendrons  are  grown  to  trees. 
From  Burnsville  one  can  get  to  this  fair,  wild  valley 
by  following  down  the  Little  Crabtree  Creek  four  or 
five  miles  to  Micaville,  a  village  that  consists  of  a 
post-office  and  very  little  else. 

The  Toe  River  throughout  its  course  is  famous 
for  its  floods,  which  may  be  why  the  South  Toe  Val- 
ley, which  is  quite  wide  in  places,  is  so  sparsely  set- 
tled. But  it  is  the  North  Toe  that  holds  the  prize 
record  in  this  matter.  After  the  memorable  flood- 
year  when  Bakersville  was  so  nearly  washed  away, 
one  saw  debris  in  the  tree  limbs  some  twenty-five  or 
thirty  feet  above  the  level  of  the  stream  in  the  nar- 
row cut  near  Spruce  Pine.  Everything  had  given 
way  before  the  fury  of  the  waters,  including  the  iron 
bridge  that  had  recently  been  built  across  the 
troublesome  stream.  To  have  an  iron  bridge  meant 
much  to  the  people,  you  may  be  sure,  and  no  doubt 
the  story  told  was  true  of  how  they  gathered  to- 
gether on  the  riverbank  and  stood  for  hours  watch- 
ing the  bridge  as  the  water  rose  and  covered  it,  and 
how  when  at  last  it  gave  way  and  went  with  a  crash 
downstream  some  of  the  watchers  wrung  their  hands 
and  wept. 

It  is  a  memorable  experience  to  cross  the  ford  at 
Spruce  Pine  when  the  waters  are  up,  as  one  dis- 
covered when,  after  waiting  for  days  weather- 
bound at  Marion,  the  chance  came  to  ascend  the 
mountains  and  attempt  the  ford.   The  road  up  the 


THE   FORKS  OF  THE  RIVER  TOE      317 

Blue  Ridge  crosses  Armstrong  Creek  several  times, 
a  good  preparation  for  the  graver  perils  of  the  Toe, 
for  Armstrong  is  one  of  those  streams  that  come  like 
a  millrace  down  the  mountain-side,  dangerous  not 
only  in  time  of  general  flood,  but  because  it  rises 
without  warning,  becoming  impassable  almost  in  a 
moment  after  a  sudden  downpour  somewhere  up  in 
the  high  mountains. 

The  entrance  to  the  Toe  ford,  one  found  to  be  a 
newmade  sandbank  down  which  was  a  steep  pitch 
into  the  rushing  yellow-red  water,  while  in  the  trees 
high  above  your  head  you  saw  the  d6bris  stranded 
there  by  the  flood.  The  river  was  terrifying  enough 
to  look  at,  and  once  in,  it  seemed  for  a  few  moments 
as  though  the  end  had  come.  Although  the  driver 
headed  well  upstream  so  as  not  to  be  washed  below 
the  ford  where  was  no  exit  through  the  rocky  wall,  it 
seemed  as  though  we  were  being  borne  swiftly  down 
to  destruction.  The  water  suddenly  rose  about  your 
knees  and  the  horses  disappeared  all  but  their  heads: 
they  were  swimming.  This  lasted  but  a  terrible  few 
moments,  however,  while  the  driver  sat  still  and 
pale,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  horses,  the  reins  held 
loosely  in  his  fingers.  It  was  discovered  afterward 
that  this  foolhardy  feat  was  the  result  of  courage 
stored  in  a  bottle  in  the  driver's  pocket.  He  had  gone 
down  the  mountain  before  a  long  rainstorm  came 
and  raised  the  waters,  and  he  had  been  detained  so 
long  that  he  was  ready  to  take  any  chance  to  get 
home.  Of  course  one  did  not  know  these  things  until 
afterwards,  and  the  fording  of  the  Toe  in  retrospect 


3i8       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

has  something  of  the  emotional  value  of  the  conflict 
with  the  powers  of  the  air  on  Whiteside. 

Doubtless  there  is  a  bridge  over  the  river  again,  as 
this  happened  several  years  ago,  pedestrians  at  that 
time  being  obliged  to  cross  by  way  of  a  chain  bridge. 
There  is  probably  nothing  worse  than  a  chain  bridge 
short  of  the  bamboo  bridges  such  as  one  sees  in 
pictures  of  wild  countries.  The  narrow  footway  is 
suspended  high  above  the  water,  the  floor  being 
made  of  slats  so  far  apart  that  you  cannot  help  see- 
ing the  water  rushing  below,  which  gives  you  the 
feeling  that  you  are  going  to  step  through.  But 
worse  than  this  is  the  motion  of  the  bridge,  that,  the 
moment  you  step  upon  it,  billows  up  and  down  as 
though  trying  to  shake  you  off,  the  rope  hand-rail 
on  either  side  being  but  one  degree  better  than  no- 
thing. These  suspension  bridges  are  used  where  the 
stream  is  too  swift  to  allow  of  a  "bench,"  and  the 
people  very  truthfully  say,  "Strangers  don't  like 
them  noway." 

One  coming  up  the  mountain  now  will  not  be 
likely  to  drive,  as  the  railroad  disdainfully  spans  the 
torrents  and  has  a  station,  if  you  please,  at  Spruce 
Pine  Itself.  In  the  old  days  upon  reaching  Spruce 
Pine  one  always  stopped  at  English's,  To  enter  this 
part  of  the  country  meant  to  stop  at  the  large,  pic- 
turesque log  house  set  back  among  the  trees  with  its 
vines  and  flowers,  and  than  which  no  place  w^as 
better  known  the  mountains  over.  It  is  also  near 
Spruce  Pine,  it  will  be  remembered,  that  one  finds 
the  most  noted  of  the  beryl  mines,  whence  come 


THE  FORKS  OF  THE  RIVER  TOE    319 

shining  crystals  for  ladies'  necklaces  and  rings  and 
brooches. 

Wild  as  parts  of  the  Southern  mountains  yet  re- 
main, it  is  seldom  one  can  get  any  real  sense  of  the 
perils  of  primitive  life.  The  wolves  are  gone,  the  bears 
are  almost  gone,  the  larger  rivers  are  being  spanned 
by  safe  bridges,  contests  with  lightning  are  only  for 
those  peculiarly  favored  of  the  gods,  new  methods  of 
lumbering  are  retiring  the  old-time  logging  train; 
yet  it  is  in  the  forest  that  we  can  get  closest  to  the 
eternal  conflict  between  nature  and  man  carried  on 
by  the  early  settlers,  in  the  forest  where  the  great 
immobile  trees  resent,  as  it  were,  the  power  that  lays 
them  low.  Even  to  be  an  onlooker  at  the  conflict  is 
exciting,  as  one  discovered  that  day  in  the  woods 
when  one  sat  down  to  rest  near  the  upper  edge  of  a 
rough,  newly  made  trough  that  extended  down  the 
mountain-side.  As  far  as  one  could  see,  on  all  sides, 
stood  large  trees,  oaks,  tulips,  and  chestnuts.  Shouts 
were  heard  in  the  distance  and  loud  crashing  sounds. 
Nearer  came  the  noise,  and  then  down  the  steep 
hollow  of  the  trough  a  yoke  of  oxen  moved  slowly, 
very  slowly  into  view.  They  were  straining  forward 
until  they  were  almost  on  their  knees.  Foam  hung 
from  their  mouths,  their  eyes  bulged,  the  veins  stood 
out  like  cords  under  their  sides  and  on  their  legs.  A 
long  whiplash  came  suddenly,  out  of  space  appar- 
ently, and  stung  their  panting  flanks,  a  man's  voice 
shouted  commands,  and  the  cattle  strained  yet 
harder  down  the  slope. 

Behind  them  came  a  second  yoke  of  oxen^  fast- 


320       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

ened  to  the  same  chain.  They,  too,  were  leaning 
forw^ard  on  the  yoke.  They,  too,  dropped  foam  from 
their  mouths  and  their  flanks  heaved.  As  these 
passed  the  opening  in  the  trees,  a  third  yoke  fol- 
lowed, straining  like  the  others,  their  noses  almost 
touching  the  ground,  their  flanks  ridged  with  whip- 
lashes. The  descent  was  steep  and  rough,  men 
shouted  frantic  commands  to  the  near  cattle  and 
far  back  in  the  woods.  Following  the  third  yoke 
came  a  fourth,  leaning  forward  like  the  others, 
disfigured  with  welts  like  the  others,  foaming  at  the 
mouth  and  with  bulging  eyes.  Behind  them  came  a 
fifth  pair  of  cattle,  their  weight  on  the  yoke,  their 
muscles  standing  out,  toiling  as  though  they  were 
trying  to  move  the  mountain  itself. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  cry  along  the  line,  men 
came  running,  whiplashes  stung  the  faces  of  the 
oxen,  and  they  halted  in  their  steep  descent.  The 
chain  slackened  and  rattled,  then  suddenly  tightened 
again,  jerking  some  of  the  cattle  out  of  their  tracks. 
Wilder  shouts  came  from  the  woods  above,  mingled 
with  a  rumbling  and  then  a  crashing  sound.  An 
instant's  ominous  silence  and  the  commotion  was 
renewed  with  tenfold  vehemence  in  the  rear.  The 
men  who  had  come  forward  ran  back.  The  cattle 
stood  panting  in  the  trail. 

Minutes  passed  while  the  sounds  of  a  struggle  of 
some  sort  came  loudly  through  the  forest.  At  last 
the  command  to  advance  was  given,  the  long  lashes 
of  plaited  hickory  bark  swung  out  and  the  ten  huge 
forms  bent  strongly  to  the  yoke.  Behind  them  came 


THE  FORKS  OF  THE  RIVER  TOE    321 

the  sixth  yoke,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  with  protrud- 
ing eyes  and  every  muscle  tense.  Slowly,  terribly, 
the  long  line  of  cattle  pulled  down  the  rough  descent, 
now  stumbling,  now  jerked  from  the  narrow  trail  to 
be  at  once  mercilessly  whipped  into  line.  The 
seventh  yoke,  with  lowered  heads  and  panting  sides, 
was  followed  by  the  eighth,  a  lordly  pair,  for  the 
creatures  were  larger  as  the  line  advanced.  These 
great  brutes  were  dark-red  with  white  stars  on  their 
foreheads,  their  breathing  was  audible,  they  were 
almost  groaning,  their  flanks  rose  and  fell  in  quick, 
short  jerks,  foam  dripped  from  their  mouths,  their 
tongues  hung  out  as  they  strained  forward  against 
the  yoke. 

Suddenly  the  commotion  in  the  rear  was  renewed, 
the  taut  chain  jerked,  the  cattle  veered,  the  chain 
suddenly  slackened  and  one  of  the  great  red  oxen  lost 
his  footing.  He  stumbled  frightfully  against  a  tree 
trunk,  his  foot  sank  into  a  hole,  it  seemed  as  though 
his  legs  must  be  broken  and  his  great  sides  crushed  as 
he  fell  forward  against  the  tree  on  his  neck,  his  head 
stretched  out.  Several  whiplashes  swung  out  and 
descended  with  sharp  reports  upon  his  quivering 
skin,  a  dozen  men  yelled,  and  he  struggled  to  his 
feet  with  bloodshot  eyes. 

Again  the  long  line  started,  again  the  living  en- 
gines bent  to  their  herculean  task,  and  the  ninth 
yoke  came  into  view.  The  noise  increased  and  the 
sound  drew  nearer  as  of  a  tremendous  weight  crash- 
ing down  the  mountain-side,  waking  the  forest  to 
horrid  clamor.    The  tenth  yoke  passed,  a  pair  of 


322        THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

enormous  brutes  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  heaving 
flanks,  like  the  others  leaning  their  weight  on  the 
yoke,  foam  dripping  from  their  open  mouths.  Be- 
hind them  came  the  eleventh  and  last  yoke  bending 
to  their  task,  suffering  with  dumb  endurance  the 
agony  of  their  brutal  labor. 

The  chain  was  longer  behind  these,  and  then 
there  appeared  at  the  opening  and  stopped,  as  the 
cry  to  halt  rang  down  the  line,  the  end  of  an  enor- 
mous tulip-tree  log.  Not  less  than  ten  feet  in  diame- 
ter nor  less  than  forty  feet  long,  it  lay  in  the  trough 
that  had  been  ploughed  out  by  other  logs.  As  it  lay 
there  it  seemed  malignant  and  conscious,  as  though 
resenting  being  torn  from  its  place  of  pride  in  the 
forest  where  it  had  so  long  towered  above  the  other 
trees. 

The  trail  changed  its  direction  at  this  point  and 
the  great  log  had  to  be  turned.  Shouts  from  the  men, 
cracking  of  whips,  creaking  of  yokes,  rattling  of 
chains  —  and  finally  the  long  line  of  cattle  stood  in 
the  new  line  of  advance.  But  the  log  lay  as  before: 
it  had  to  be  turned,  not  by  the  cattle,  but  by  the 
army  of  men  that  had  now  come  to  view.  Along  the 
sides  of  the  great  column  they  ranged  themselves, 
cant-hook  in  hand,  and  at  the  word  of  command 
tried  to  move  it,  pivoting  it  on  the  chain  end  and 
striving  to  swing  the  other  end  about  until  it  should 
lie  in  the  new  line  of  direction.  As  the  cattle  had 
toiled,  now  toiled  the  men.  The  veins  started  on 
their  temples,  their  eyes  stood  out,  they  were  silent 
during  the  effort. 


THE   FORKS  OF  THE  RIVER  TOE      323 

The  log  moved,  it  turned,  and  then  —  in  spite  of 
their  almost  superhuman  efforts,  it  rolled.  Over  it 
rolled  down  the  slope,  twisting  the  chain,  dragging 
four  yokes  of  oxen  into  the  bushes  as  though  they 
had  been  so  many  straws.  There  were  shrieks  of 
command  and  of  fear  as  the  men  on  the  lower  side 
leaped  out  of  the  way,  while  others  horribly  whipped, 
goaded,  and  shrieked  at  the  cattle  that  had  fallen 
down  the  hillside.  The  log  had  come  to  rest  perilously 
near  the  perpendicular  wall  of  a  low  ledge  of  rock 
and  the  men  had  the  dangerous  task  of  returning  it  to 
its  place.  Some  below  steadied  it  and  pushed  with 
levers,  while  those  above  struck  into  it  with  their 
strong  hooks  and  put  all  their  strength  to  the  task. 
For  an  hour  the  struggle  between  the  log  and  the 
men  continued,  a  struggle  fraught  with  danger  to 
the  lives  of  both  man  and  beast.  But  the  more  active 
power  won,  and  the  great  log  lay  in  the  new  path.  All 
was  ready  again,  the  whips  cracked,  the  men  shouted, 
the  cattle  bent  to  the  yokes,  the  log  yielded,  the  long 
line  moved  on. 

The  way  was  very  dangerous  now,  as  a  steep  in- 
cline lay  just  ahead.  The  men  with  their  iron  hooks 
jumped  now  this  side  and  now  that  to  keep  the  log 
in  its  track.  The  trail  grew  steeper  and  the  great 
bolt  began  to  move  too  rapidly.  The  men  with  their 
hooks  in  its  sides  held  back  with  all  their  strength, 
others  shrieked  at  the  cattle  and  goaded  them 
brutally  that  they  might  keep  clear;  they  made 
a  sudden  pitch  forward  and  fell  over  each  other, 
the  last  yoke  but  barely  escaping  a  lunge  from  the 


324       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

dreadful  object  behind.  The  noise  of  the  shouting 
was  deafening. 

Thus  had  the  great  log  been  coaxed  and  driven, 
held  back  and  drawn  forth,  out  of  the  roadless  forest. 
At  last  it  was  pulled  up  a  gentle  slope  and  on  a  level 
space  came  to  rest  alongside  a  group  of  others  like 
it  —  to  have  its  bark  removed  and  await  its  turn  at 
the  portable  sawmill  that  stood  a  few  rods  away.  The 
logs  are  never  barked  in  the  forest;  the  men  say 
they  would  be  killed  getting  them  out  unless  the 
bark  was  on  to  keep  the  logs  from  slipping. 

On  the  platform  of  the  mill  a  log  had  just  been 
rolled ;  it  was  placed  against  the  saw,  it  seemed  to  the 
imagination  to  shiver,  then  a  long,  piercing  shriek 
rent  the  air,  and  a  slab  dropped  from  its  side,  the 
first  step  in  the  process  of  converting  a  tree  into  a 
pile  of  boards.  These  boards  are  placed  in  what 
seems  light  loads  on  rude  wagons,  before  each  wagon 
a  line  of  oxen  is  attached,  and  over  the  rough  roads 
the  load  is  drawn,  sometimes  many  miles,  to  the 
nearest  railway  station.  Thus  does  the  forest  inflict 
its  penalty  of  pain,  and  thus  has  the  world  been 
supplied  with  wood  from  the  stricken  giants  of  the 
beautiful,  devastated  forests  of  the  Southern  moun- 
tains. 


XXX 

LEDGER   AND   THE    ROAN 

THE  name  of  Micaville  explains  itself.  It  lies  in 
the  most  important  mica  region  of  the  moun- 
tains, where  the  rocks  sparkle,  the  roads  glitter,  and 
nearly  everybody  is  engaged  one  way  or  another  in 
working  in  mica.  You  see  women  and  girls  sitting  un- 
der sheds  cutting  plates  of  mica  into  regular  shapes, 
and  piles  of  mica-waste  glinting  by  the  roadside  or 
flashing  near  the  mouths  of  the  mines  on  the  hillsides. 
Yet  there  is  nothing  here  to  suggest  the  hardships  of  a 
mining  country,  for  the  mines  are  for  the  most  part 
near  or  at  the  surface,  and  the  workers  are  the  moun- 
tain people  themselves.  It  is  here  that,  walking  on  a 
dusty  day,  you  come  home  sparkling  like  a  Christ- 
mas-tree decoration,  and  here  that  the  laurel  bushes 
glitter  with  little  points  of  light  that  do  not  come 
from  their  glossy  leaves.  Not  only  at  Micaville, 
but  all  through  this  region  the  earth  sparkles  pro- 
digiously. 

If  you  follow  the  road  northeast  from  Micaville, 
you  will  not  only  get  some  very  fine  views  of  the 
Black  Mountains,  but  you  will  cross  a  charming 
ford  of  the  wild  North  Toe  that  enters  the  South 
Toe  a  little  below  here,  and  best  of  all  you  will  soon 
come  to  Ledger,  which,  though  it  may  be  little  more 
than  a  name  on  the  map,  is  much  more  than  that 


326       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

to  those  who  have  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  the 
friends  once  Hving  there,  and  from  whose  home  as  a 
centre  this  whole  beautiful  country  lay  open. 

Ledger  was  as  remote  as  any  place  in  the  moun- 
tains when  one  first  went  there,  but  now  the  new 
railroad,  that  has  performed  the  feat  of  crossing 
the  mountains  by  ascending  the  wild  Toe  Valley 
and  descending  the  Blue  Ridge,  has  a  station  on  the 
river  a  few  miles  from  Ledger. 

Ledger  will  long  be  remembered  as  the  home  of 
Professor  Charles  Hallet  Wing,  who,  after  many 
years  of  notable  service  as  professor  of  chemistry 
in  the  Boston  Institute  of  Technology,  came  here 
before  there  had  been  any  change  in  the  customs  of 
the  country,  to  escape  the  turmoil  of  the  outer  world. 
Professor  Wing  vehemently  disclaimed  any  share  in 
changing  —  he  would  not  call  it  "improving"  — 
the  life  of  the  people,  but  he  made  his  charming  log 
house,  his  barn  and  outbuildings,  also  his  fences 
with  their  help.  In  his  carpenter  and  blacksmith 
shops  the  youth  of  the  neighborhood  learned  the 
use  of  tools,  and  how  to  make  many  things.  They 
also  laid  pipes  to  carry  water  to  the  house,  and  be- 
came familiar  with  the  electric  motor  that  lighted 
the  place. 

Professor  Wing,  with  no  thought  of  course  of 
benefiting  the  people,  built  a  school-house  and  lib- 
rary building,  the  school-rooms  seating  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  pupils,  provided  two  teachers, 
and  himself  conducted  a  manual  training  depart- 
ment which  he  fitted  up  in  the  basement.    At  the 


LEDGER  AND  THE  ROAN  327 

time  of  Professor  Wing's  first  coming  scarcely  any 
one  in  that  region  could  read  or  write,  but  that  this 
was  the  fault  of  circumstances  alone  was  shown  by 
the  fact  that  there  were  two  hundred  and  fifty 
applicants  the  first  year  the  school  was  opened,  these 
ranging  from  six  years  old  to  forty,  and  this  school 
was  successfully  conducted  without  the  infliction 
of  any  sort  of  punishment. 

The  library  was  in  time  supplied  with  some  fifteen 
thousand  books  which  were  sent  to  Professor  Wing 
by  friends  who  wanted  to  help  from  all  over  the 
country.  The  library  was  kept  by  a  native  youth 
who  was  trained  for  the  purpose  and  taught  to 
rebind  books,  a  very  necessary  art,  since  some  of 
the  most-used  books  were  those  that  had  been  dis- 
carded by  the  Boston  Public  Library.  At  the  little 
Good-Will  Library  in  the  heart  of  the  Carolina 
mountains,  the  old  volumes  were  cleansed  and  re- 
paired and  books  sent  out  all  over  the  mountains, 
being  loaned  not  only  to  those  who  came  for  them, 
but  sent  in  the  form  of  small,  traveling  libraries, 
each  box  containing  seventy-five  books,  wherever  a 
man  would  "  tote"  them  in  his  wagon,  be  responsible 
for  their  distribution,  and  after  three  months  bring 
them  back  again  —  and  get  another  set  if  he  so 
desired.  The  library  was  free,  with  rules  but  no 
fines,  and  it  is  illustrative  of  the  quality  of  the 
people  that  the  rules  were  not  broken  and  that  at 
the  end  of  the  first  year  not  a  book  was  missing,  none 
had  been  kept  out  overtime,  while  less  than  six  per 
cent  of  those  taken  out  had  been  fiction!   What  a 


328       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

boon  it  was  to  come  upon  one  of  these  cases  of 
books  when  storm-bound  in  some  otherwise  bookless 
place !  One  remembers  whiHng  away  several  stormy 
days  reading  Froude's  *' Essays"  from  one  of  these 
libraries,  which  among  more  popular  reading  al- 
ways contained  a  lure  for  the  more  sober-minded. 

In  the  home  at  Ledger  the  housework  was  done 
by  mountain  girls  trained  by  the  genial  hostess, 
who  loved  her  girl  charges  and  taught  them  every- 
thing they  might  need  to  know  in  making  a  home  for 
themselves.  One  remembers  the  pretty  sewing-room 
in  a  cabin  in  the  woods,  with  its  sewing-machine  and 
work-table  where  the  girls  went  afternoons  to  chat- 
ter together  and  sew  for  themselves,  with  an  occa- 
sional visit  from  the  beloved  lady  who  dropped  in  to 
advise  or  praise. 

We  accused  the  Professor  and  his  wife  of  ruining 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  country  for  a  radius  of 
miles  about  their  place,  for  paint  and  upright  fences 
and  buildings,  tidy  yards  and  farms,  with  every- 
where signs  of  modern  methods  of  life,  had  somehow 
followed  their  coming.  But  there  were  still  left 
plenty  of  log  houses  to  repay  one's  wanderings  along 
the  shady  roads  where  the  picturesque  foliage  of  the 
buckeye  mingled  so  prettily  with  the  leaves  of  the 
other  hardwood  trees,  and  where  wild  plums  offered 
you  high-flavored  fruits  in  the  summer,  and  chinka- 
pins showered  bright  brown  nuts  about  you  in  the 
fall. 

Is  it  Uncle  Remus  with  his  Brer  Rabbit  who  has 
cast  such  a  glamour  over  the  chinkapin  —  that  mini- 


LEDGER  AND  THE  ROAN  329 

ature  chestnut  tree  whose  Httle  sweet  nuts  are  scat- 
tered so  plentifully  about  the  roadsides  in  the  fall? 
And  what  a  pretty  custom  it  is  to  speak  of  coins 
of  small  denomination  as  "chinkapin  change."  It 
quite  takes  the  sordidness  out  of  money.  The  buck- 
eye, too,  has  over  it  a  glamour  of  romance,  and  while 
its  large  glossy  nuts  are  not  to  be  eaten,  it  lights  up 
the  forest  in  an  enchanting  manner  with  its  large 
clusters  of  red,  pink,  and  yellow  blossoms  that  cover 
the  tree  and  open  about  the  time  the  tulip-tree 
begins  to  bloom.  Throughout  the  hardwood  forests 
of  the  higher  mountains  it  grows  to  perfection. 

One  never  thinks  of  Ledger  without  recalling  de- 
lightful walks  in  search  of  pictures,  for  there  are  no 
better  fireplaces  and  looms,  nor  more  picturesque 
little  mills  and  bee-gums  any  where  in  the  moun- 
tains than  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ledger.  Can  one 
ever  forget  Bear  Creek  and  the  friendly  people  there ! 
—  how  one  would  like  to  speak  their  names,  for  the 
names  of  the  people  recall  cherished  memories  of  the 
mountains,  each  region  having  its  own  names.  It 
was  up  Bear  Creek  that  we  found  an  old  lady  of 
ninety  spinning  on  her  porch,  and  up  Bear  Creek  we 
learned  new  patterns  on  old  coverlets,  and  got  many 
a  picturesque  washing  scene  and  interior  where  the 
great  fireplace  was  draped  with  strings  of  beans  or  of 
pumpkin,  and  where  we  saw  big  wild  grapes  strung 
like  beads,  and  hung  up  to  dry. 

Wandering  about  the  country,  how  many  an 
open-air  cane-mill  we  visited  where  the  people  were 
grinding  out  their  winter  supply  of  "long  sweeten- 


330       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

Ing,"  and  who  never  failed  to  offer  you  a  cupful  of 
the  boiling  syrup.  And  following  the  pleasant  fra- 
grance of  wintergreen,  we  found  the  "birch  still" 
hidden  in  the  woods,  though  not  for  reasons  of  se- 
crecy, as  no  penalty  is  attached  to  the  distillation  of 
the  essential  oils  that  are,  at  the  country  stores, 
exchanged  for  shoes  and  sugar. 

One's  youthful  conception  of  birch  bark,  that  it 
was  something  that  grew  out  in  the  woods  to  be 
chewed,  is  here  enlarged  by  discovering  the  birch 
still,  wherever  the  sweet  birch  abounds,  zealously 
extracting  the  fragrant  oil  that  goes  to  flavor  our 
candies  and  perfume  our  medicines  under  the  name 
of  ''wintergreen."  Another  youthful  belief,  gathered 
from  literature  that  oil  floats,  is  also  modified  by  the 
discovery  that  birch  oil  at  least  could  never  be  cast 
upon  the  troubled  waters,  because  it  is  red  and 
heavy,  and  sinks  to  the  bottom  of  the  bottle  of  water 
into  which  it  runs  from  the  "worm "  in  the  still.  The 
only  objection  one  has  to  the  birch  still  is  the 
pathetic  bare  trunks  left  standing  in  the  forest  where 
the  bark  has  been  completely  cut  from  the  trees. 

This  objection  does  not  attach  to  the  delightful 
pennyroyal  still  that  one  sometimes  finds  near  the 
dry  banks,  where  pennyroyal  grows  in  intoxicating 
abundance,  and  the  gathering  of  which  seems  to 
leave  no  scar  nor  in  any  way  diminish  the  supply. 
Pennyroyal  oil  floats,  as  oil  ought,  on  the  surface  of 
the  water  into  which  it  drops,  and  the  pennyroyal 
still  has  so  thoroughly  scented  the  halls  of  memory 
that  one  can  never  again  smell  the  aromatic  herb  in 


LEDGER  AND  THE   ROAN  331 

any  form  whatever  without  seeing  those  open  sunny 
banks  hot  with  pennyroyal  that  lie  on  the  side  of 
Roan  Mountain.  And  how  many  know  the  refresh- 
ing quaHty  of  a  sprig  of  pennyroyal  on  a  hot  summer 
day.  To  chew  this,  or  one  of  the  pungent  mints  that 
also  grow  here  in  abundance,  can  sometimes  add 
a  mile  or  two  to  the  day's  walk.  There  are  oil  stills 
in  the  mountains  south  of  Asheville,  but  it  happened 
to  be  these  of  the  more  northern  regions  that  one 
first  and  most  often  happened  upon,  and  about  which 
cling  so  many  fragrant  memories.  Pennyroyal  and 
ginseng  are  by  no  means  the  only  herbs  gathered  in 
the  mountains.  Indeed,  the  higher  Appalachians  are 
a  principal  source  of  supply  for  a  great  variety  of 
medicinal  herbs,  many  tons  of  which  are  yearly 
shipped  to  all  parts  of  the  country  and  to  Europe. 
In  the  season  you  are  always  meeting  the  herb  col- 
lectors, either  gathering  herbs  from  the  immense 
wild  gardens  where  they  grow  or  "toting"  them 
down  the  mountains  in  great  bags  on  their  backs. 
One  remembers  gardens  of  balmony  on  the  Grand- 
father Mountain,  where  after  the  collectors  had  gone 
you  would  not  notice  that  any  had  been  removed,  so 
dense  was  the  growth.  The  herbs  are  taken  home 
and  dried  and  exchanged  at  the  country  stores,  that 
carry  on  a  lively  traffic  in  this  industry  which  keeps 
many  a  mountain  family  in  the  necessities  of  life.  You 
see  the  herbs,  each  in  its  season  drying  everywhere, 
spread  out  on  the  roofs,  on  the  porch  floors  and  — 
under  the  beds. 

The  curious  names  of  some  of  the  places  in  the 


332       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

mountains  owe  their  origin  to  the  sudden  demand 
on  the  part  of  the  Government  for  short,  distinctive 
titles  for  post-offices.  It  takes  either  a  great  deal  of 
time  or  a  very  quick  wit  properly  to  name  a  place, 
and  so  we  have  Spruce  Pine  not  because  spruce 
pines  abound,  —  there  are  only  two  there,  —  but 
because  somebody  happened  to  think  of  it.  For  the 
same  reason,  no  doubt.  Ledger  got  its  name,  the 
true  significance  of  which  dawns  upon  you  when 
discovering  a  few  miles  away  a  place  called  "Day- 
book!" 

The  pretty  name  of  Lofus  Lory,  that  so  pleased 
and  puzzled  you  until  curiosity  overcame  discretion 
and  led  to  inquiry,  was  not  a  sudden  inspiration, 
though  the  reason  for  it  is  obscure,  one  being  unable 
to  discover  that  it  in  any  way  deserves  its  ortho- 
graphic title.  For  "Lofus  Lory"  when  spelled  out 
becomes  "Loafer's  Glory."  As  it  has  no  post-office, 
and  has  not  yet  been  printed  on  any  map,  there  is 
hope  that  phonetic  spelling  may  be  adopted  in  time 
to  save  it.  The  principal  and  perhaps  the  only  family 
at  Lofus  Lory  is  distinguished  for  nothing  worse 
than  its  efforts  to  raise  melons  in  a  sandy  bottom 
near  the  Toe ;  but  when  you  inquire  about  the  melons, 
with  interested  motives,  you  learn  that  the  river  one 
day  removed  a  part  of  the  farm  with  the  melons 
thereon,  leaving  the  ambitious  Lofus  Lory  like  unto 
the  rest  of  the  world  so  far  as  melons  are  concerned. 

The  temptation  to  linger  about  Ledger  is  difficult 
to  overcome,  but  there  is  the  great  Roan  waiting 
but  a  little  way  north  from  here,  to  reach  which  one 


LEDGER   AND   THE  ROAN  333 

follows  the  road  to  Bakcrsvillc,  preferably  afoot,  for 
it  is  only  a  few  miles,  and  there  are  those  charming 
views  of  the  mountains,  deep  indigo  in  one  direction, 
while  in  the  other  the  Blacks  appear,  sombre,  solid, 
and  strong,  or  else  seeming  to  hang  suspended,  half 
dissolved  in  gray  rain-mists.  To  enjoy  the  way 
properly  one  should  not  only  walk,  but  take  time 
to  sit  on  a  rock  and  consider  how  the  tall  white  spikes 
of  the  black  snakeroot  shine  out  of  the  dark  woods, 
and  ponder  over  the  peculiar,  penetrating  odor  of 
the  sourwood  that  on  a  hot  day  pursues  one  like  a 
dream,  the  fragrance  seeming  to  lie  in  wait  at  the 
turns  of  the  road  to  embrace  one,  the  trees  whence  it 
comes  standing  somewhere  unseen  in  the  depths  of 
the  forest. 

Bakersville  lies  in  the  valley  of  Cane  Creek  that 
runs  down  the  middle  of  the  village  with  houses  on 
either  side,  the  road  and  the  creek  identical  in 
places.  This  confidence  in  pretty  Cane  Creek  was 
ill-requited  when,  in  the  terrible  floods  that  occurred 
a  few  years  ago,  it  rose  and  roared  and  thundered 
through  the  valley  and  nearly  wiped  out  of  exist- 
ence Bakersville,  which  is  the  largest  village  in  this 
part  of  the  mountains,  and  w^hich  like  Burnsville,  is 
an  educational  centre.  Now  the  railroad  that  has 
made  its  way  up  the  wild  Toe  River  passes  close, 
making  the  fortunate  village  easily  accessible  to  the 
outer  world  that  stands  knocking  at  the  gates  of 
the  mountains. 

But  to  the  visitor  who  comes  to  explore,  Bakers- 
ville's  principal  attraction  is  its  proximity  to  the 


334       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Roan  and  the  Big  Yellow,  the  most  famous  balds  In 
the  region,  perhaps  in  all  the  mountains.  The  coves 
and  valleys  at  the  foot  of  the  Roan  are  thickly 
settled,  and  a  road  crosses  over  the  summit  of  the 
mountain  connecting  the  hotel  there  not  only  with 
the  new  railroad  to  the  south,  but  with  another  rail- 
road to  the  north  that  originally  came  in  from  the 
west  for  the  use  of  the  iron  company  at  Cranberry, 
and  now  crosses  the  Blue  Ridge,  so  that  the  northern 
part  of  the  mountains  within  a  few  years  has  be- 
come almost  as  accessible  as  the  regions  about 
Asheville. 

The  ascent  of  the  Roan  from  either  side  is  delight- 
ful. From  Bakersville  the  road  leads  up  the  pictur- 
esque Rock  Creek  Valley  that  lies  squeezed  between 
the  Pumpkin-Patch  Mountain  on  the  south  and  the 
slopes  of  the  big  Roan  on  the  north.  The  Roan, 
standing  boldly  out  in  the  landscape,  is  remarkable 
as  being  without  trees  excepting  in  the  ravines  and  a 
narrow  belt  of  firs  towards  the  top.  For  this  reason 
it  is  a  mountain  of  pastures,  as  are  Grassy  Ridge 
Bald  and  the  Big  Yellow  Mountain  connecting  with 
it  towards  the  east.  Near  the  top  of  Roan,  which  Is 
over  sixty-three  hundred  feet  high,  is  Cloudland 
Hotel  where  one  dines  in  North  Carolina  and  sleeps 
in  Tennessee,  the  hotel  being  cut  in  two  by  the  state 
line. 

Roan  Mountain  has  long  been  famous  for  two 
things,  the  circular  rainbow  sometimes  seen  from  the 
summit,  and  the  variety  of  wild  flowers  that  grow  on 
its  slopes,  it  being  reported  that  more  species  are 


LEDGER  AND  THE   ROAN  335 

found  here  than  in  any  other  one  place  on  the  conti- 
nent. One  not  a  botanist  going  up  in  the  summer 
will  be  delighted  with  the  luxuriance  and  variety  of 
colors  assumed  by  the  bee-balm,  blood-red  prevail- 
ing, although  some  of  the  springs  and  damp  hollows 
are  painted  about  with  lavender,  blush-rose,  dark 
rose-red,  pale  honey-yellow  or  white  bee-balm,  and  all 
of  them,  no  matter  what  the  color,  are  full  of  hum- 
ming-birds. The  botanies  have  no  idea  how  many 
colors  this  charming  plant  assumes  on  the  open  slopes 
of  the  Roan.  From  these  slopes  one  gets  fine  views 
of  the  surrounding  mountains,  views  sometimes 
framed  in  rose-bay  bushes,  when  your  imagination 
paints  a  glowing  picture  of  the  scene  when  the  rose- 
bay  is  in  bloom. 

Near  the  summit  you  notice  the  little  houstonia, 
with  plumy  saxifrage  and  pink  oxalis  everywhere  in 
the  mosslike  growths  that  cover  the  rocks,  and  you 
will  also  notice,  although  you  may  not  know  how 
rare  it  is,  the  large  buttercup-like  flower  with  a 
geranium  leaf,  the  Geum  grandiflorum.  If  it  is  sum- 
mer you  will  see  the  bright  flowers  of  the  lily  named 
after  Asa  Gray,  it  having  been  first  captured  on  the 
Roan,  although  it  is  abundant  all  through  the 
mountains.  And  you  will  be  sure  to  taste  the  little 
high-flavored  strawberries  hiding  on  the  grassy 
ledges. 

There  are  a  few  spruce  and  fir  trees,  mountain 
ashes  and  alders  scattered  about  near  the  top,  but 
otherwise  the  Roan  presents  wide  reaches  of  pasture 
land  where  flocks  and  herds  are  grazing,  and  where, 


336       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

as  you  stand  looking  over  the  mountains  beyond,  a 
heifer,  that  has  long  been  gazing  stolidly  at  you, 
draws  near  and  licks  your  hand,  probably  to  find 
out  what  that  motionless  figure  is  really  made  of. 

There  is  no  mountain  whose  name  you  more  often 
hear  than  that  of  the  Roan.  And  the  estimation  in 
which  the  people  hold  this  great  bald  was  shown  one 
day  when  a  stranger,  seeking  to  entertain  a  moun- 
tain woman,  told  her  about  Italy  with  its  Vesuvius, 
its  great  churches,  and  its  people  with  their  strange 
customs.  When  the  story  was  done,  the  woman 
looked  intently  at  the  narrator  and  then  asked 
critically,  "Have  you-all  been  to  Roan  Mountain?" 
Being  answered  in  the  negative,  she  added,  some- 
what condescendingly,  "Well,  if  you  want  to  travel 
and  see  something,  you  ought  to  go  to  Roan  Moun- 
tain." 

From  the  summit  of  the  Roan  you  can  continue 
on  and  down  the  north  side  to  the  Roan  Mountain 
Station  on  the  railroad,  or  you  can  follow  the  long 
trail  over  Grassy  Ridge  Bald,  along  the  side  of  the 
Big  Yellow  and  Hump  Mountains  down  to  Elk  Park, 
where  you  can  take  the  train  by  way  of  Cranberry 
and  its  famous  iron  mines  to  the  Linville  Country. 
On  a  fair  day  the  long  walk  over  the  trail  is  the  better 
choice,  but  you  will  have  to  take  a  guide,  though 
one  remembers  sitting  down  on  a  mountain-top 
where  two  paths  crossed,  and  studying  out  the  situ- 
ation on  the  government  map  while  the  mountain 
woman  who  had  come  to  show  the  way  looked  on. 
Of  course  we  were  not  lost,   nobody  ever  is,  the 


LEDGER  AND  THE   ROAN  337 

nearest  to  It  ever  known  being  by  a  mountain  man 
who  admitted  that  he  had  once  spent  three  days 
plumb  bewildered  in  the  woods. 

The  Topographic  Maps  of  the  United  States 
Geological  Survey  are  the  best  guides  one  could 
have  for  general  use;  indeed,  many  of  them  are  so 
detailed  that  one  could  follow  the  obscurest  trails 
by  their  help.  And  they  are  always  present,  being 
printed  in  sections  on  sheets  that  can  be  folded  small 
enough  to  be  carried  in  the  pocket,  and  they  cost 
only  five  cents  apiece.  These  maps  are  a  splendid 
tribute  to  the  work  done  by  the  Department  that 
issues  them.  To  get  them  it  is  only  necessary  to 
write  to  the  Director  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  who  will 
send  a  plan  of  the  maps,  from  which  you  can  select 
those  you  need. 


XXXI 

LINVILLE  FALLS 

ONE  goes  to  Linville  Falls  to  see  the  beautiful 
river  at  the  point  where  it  takes  that  leap  into 
the  gorge,  forming  the  most  noted  cataract  in  the 
mountains.  Linville,  under  the  Grandfather  Moun- 
tain, lies  in  a  green  bowl  with  tree-covered  hills  for 
its  sides.  Above  the  hotel,  on  the  edge  of  the  green 
bowl,  look  out  cottages  and  summer  houses,  for 
Linville  is  a  well-known  resort.  The  river  flows 
sparkling  and  dancing  along  one  side  of  the  bowl  on 
its  way  to  the  falls  ten  or  twelve  miles  south  of  here. 
The  Linville  is  a  delightful  river,  a  clear  trout  stream 
from  its  birth-spring  back  of  the  Grandfather  down 
to  the  falls  and  on  through  the  ten-miles-long  canyon 
below  them,  the  canyon  it  has  worn  between  Lin- 
ville Mountain  and  wild  Hawksbill  and  Tablerock. 
The  way  to  Linville  from  Ledger  is  by  a  pleasant 
and  varied  route  up  the  North  Toe  River,  then  over 
ridges,  up  the  Plumtree  Creek,  across  the  Blue 
Ridge,  past  Crossnore  under  the  Snake  Den  Moun- 
tain, and  on  through  Kawana,  where  you  will  stop  to 
visit  the  Highlands  Nursery  that  has  done  so  much 
to  make  the  beautiful  growths  of  these  mountains 
known  to  the  outside  world.  It  began  twenty-five 
years  ago  with  half  an  acre  of  land  as  an  experiment. 
Now  it  covers  one  hundred  acres,  and  every  year 


LINVILLE   FALLS  339 

sends  out  many  carloads  of  the  beautiful  things  that 
grow  here  and  which  find  their  way,  not  only  to 
different  parts  of  our  own  country,  but  all  over 
Europe.  This  nursery  owes  its  existence  to  Mr.  S.  T. 
Kelsey,  of  New  York  State,  who  came  here  from 
Kansas,  and,  with  the  energy  and  optimism  of  the 
North  and  the  West  combined,  tried  to  transform 
the  mountains.  But  he  came  too  soon;  the  hour 
of  awakening  had  not  struck;  so  when  he  laid  out 
a  whole  town  on  the  Highlands  plateau  after  the 
Western  fashion,  the  people  looked  on  in  amaze- 
ment and  Highlands  remained  un transformed,  as 
remained  the  rest  of  the  mountains  at  that  time, 
excepting  for  the  roads  he  projected.  For  Mr. 
Kelsey  had  yet  greater  genius  for  making  roads  than 
towns,  and  laid  out  the  finest  of  those  first  made  in 
the  mountains,  among  them  the  beautiful  Yonah- 
lossee  Road  that  crosses  the  southern  slopes  of  the 
Grandfather  Mountain,  scarcely  changing  its  grade 
for  a  distance  of  nearly  twenty  miles.  It  was  also 
Mr.  Kelsey  who  planned  Linville  with  its  hotels 
and  its  lake.  But  the  best  thing  he  did  was  making 
the  gardens  and  taming  the  most  decorative  and 
beautiful  of  the  w^ild  growths,  not  only  the  royal 
rhododendrons,  laurel,  and  azaleas,  and  the  noble 
forest  trees,  but  the  silver-bell,  the  sourvvood,  the 
leucothoe,  the  yellow-root,  the  wild  lilies  and  or- 
chids, and  a  hundred  other  charming  wild  flowers, 
including  Shortia  that  gave  the  botanists  such  long 
search,  inducing  them  to  tolerate  the  limitations  of 
a  man-made  garden,  and  also  to  bloom  yet  more 


340       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

freely,  if  possible,  there  than  in  the  wilderness.  Al- 
though no  longer  alone  in  its  work,  the  Highland 
Nursery  was  the  first  native  enterprise  to  distribute 
the  decorative  plants  of  this  region  from  the  North 
Carolina  mountains,  and  from  it  the  estate  of  Bilt- 
more  supplied  its  first  needs. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that,  long  before  the 
people  of  America  had  learned  to  appreciate  the 
beautiful  plants  with  which  their  country  is  so 
richly  endowed,  these  were  used  and  highly  valued 
in  European  gardens,  and  English  estates  were  beau- 
tified with  our  rhododendrons,  laurels,  and  azaleas 
long  before  we  had  learned  to  value  them  as  orna- 
mental growths  for  cultivated  grounds.  It  was 
Michaux,  who,  transported  by  the  beauty  of  the  wild 
flowers  of  the  New  World,  took  many  of  them  home 
and  introduced  them  to  the  people  of  Europe.  It 
was  he  also  who  taught  the  mountain  people  the 
value  of  ginseng  and  how  to  prepare  it  for  the 
Chinese  market. 

It  is  but  a  few  pleasant  miles  from  Kawana  to 
Linville,  along  a  road  very  much  interfered  with  by 
little  tributaries  of  the  Linville  River,  among  them 
the  pretty  Grandmother  Creek.  But  if  you  want  to 
go  directly  to  the  falls  from  Kawana,  you  turn 
towards  the  south  instead  of  the  north,  and  follow 
the  road  a  few  miles  down  the  river  to  the  Linville 
Falls  settlement:  this  is  about  a  mile  from  the  falls 
to  which  a  rough  road  leads,  for  the  country  about 
here  is  extremely  wild:  the  woods  are  choked  with 
dense  growths  of  laurel  and  rhododendron,  and  the 


LINVILLE   FALLS  341 

land  is  torn  by  ravines.  For  we  are  now  on  the  outer 
side  of  the  Blue  Ridge  adjoining  the  peculiarly  wild 
foothill  country,  and  whether  the  Linville  River 
breaks  through  the  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge  depends 
upon  whether  you  consider  the  narrow  Linville 
Mountain  a  part  of  the  Blue  Ridge  or  a  part  of  the 
foothills,  for  it  is  over  the  upper  edge  of  the  deep 
gorge  that  separates  Linville  Mountain  from  a  high 
ridge  of  the  foothills  that  the  river  makes  its  escape. 
But  however  geology  may  decide  the  matter,  in 
appearance  the  Linville  Mountain  belongs  to  the 
Blue  Ridge,  and  one  always  thinks  of  it  as  ending 
the  mountain  plateau  at  that  point. 

Across  the  clearing,  at  the  end  of  the  rough  road 
that  leads  to  the  falls,  stands  a  house  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  precipice.  As  you  approach  it,  the  thun- 
der of  the  water  grows  louder:  you  have  a  sense  of 
nearing  some  catastrophe  in  nature.  At  the  brink 
the  mountain  stops  short  without  the  slightest 
preparatory  slope,  without  a  buttressing  spur.  It 
drops  in  an  upright  wall,  along  the  face  of  which  a 
path  descends  through  the  rhododendrons  that  have 
grown  along  a  narrow  ledge.  Down  the  path  you 
take  your  way.  At  a  certain  point  in  it  you  can  step 
out  on  the  top  of  a  large  rock  and  see  the  river  raging 
between  cleft  walls  directly  below  you.  As  you  con- 
tinue the  steep  descent  beyond  here,  rhododendrons 
offer  you  long,  curved  arms  to  hold  by,  and  lend  you 
their  roots  to  step  on.  Finally,  you  jump  down  to  a 
broad  stone  floor,  and  before  you  in  its  bed  of  solid 
rock  lies  the  large  pool  of  the  upper  falls  into  which 


342       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

the  river  enters  in  two  wide,  low  cascades  that  are 
separated  from  each  other  by  tree-covered  rocks. 

The  shining  Linville  steps  down  from  the  forest, 
through  which  it  has  sparkled  and  sung  all  the  way 
from  its  source  at  the  back  of  the  Grandfather,  to 
rest  as  it  were  in  the  beautiful  pool  and  make  ready 
for  that  great  leap  down  the  wall  of  the  mountain. 
High  walls  clad  with  living  green  encircle  the  pool 
on  whose  calm  surface  are  mirrored  the  trees  and 
the  sky.  To  the  eye  it  is  a  scene  of  peace,  but  in  the 
ears  is  the  tumultuous  beating  of  the  waters.  The 
outlet  of  the  pool  is  a  deep  and  narrow  crack.  It 
is  as  though  the  broad  river-bed  had  suddenly  been 
set  up  on  edge.  The  water  plunges  with  a  roar  into 
this  winding  channel,  rages  about  the  impediments 
there,  and  finally  escapes  through  a  cleft  in  the  rock 
to  leap  over  the  wall  of  the  mountain. 

Across  a  wide  stone  floor  one  walks  to  the  scene  of 
commotion  in  the  narrow  channel,  but  it  is  impossible 
to  get  a  view  of  the  final  plunge  without  gaining  a 
point  of  vantage  by  a  jump  too  dangerous  to  think 
of.  It  fills  one  with  a  sense  of  impending  danger  to 
stand  shut  in  by  the  high  walls  and  hear  the  strife 
between  the  water  and  the  rocks:  and  if  it  is  terrible 
at  this  safe  season  of  the  year,  imagine  it  in  the 
spring  floods!  Standing  on  the  wide,  dry  pavement, 
you  look  up  to  see  a  drift-log  caught  in  the  bushes 
on  the  cliff- side  high  above  your  head.  It  is  hard  to 
realize  it,  yet  you  know  the  water  put  it  there.  It 
was  at  a  time  of  high  water  that  the  upper  rim  of 
the  lower  fall  gave  way,  forming  a  step,  and  consid- 


LINVILLE   FALLS  343 

erably  lowering  the  final  leap,  thus  taking  away 
something  from  its  impressiveness. 

Climbing  up  again  to  where  the  path  branches,  if 
you  want  to  go  to  the  foot  of  the  fall,  where  you  can 
get  a  near  view  of  it,  you  turn  aside  here  —  and  take 
the  consequences.  A  stream  of  water  trickles  down 
the  slippery  path,  which  is  half  rock,  half  rhododen- 
dron roots.  The  limbs  of  the  rhododendrons  twist 
about  you  like  enormous  snakes.  You  step  down 
where  you  can,  but  where  the  distance  is  too  great 
you  have  to  jump,  that  is,  you  jump  if  you  dare, 
but  it  is  not  likely  you  will  dare,  knowing  what  is 
below.  The  alternative  is  to  sit  down  and  slide  over 
the  rocks  covered  with  black  and  sticky  mud.  It  is  a 
breathless  scramble  and  your  arms  ache  from  hold- 
ing to  the  rhododendron  cables.  Finally,  you  reach 
the  narrow  ledge  of  rock  that  borders  the  deep  pool 
into  which  the  river  drops.  There  it  is,  close  to  you, 
a  high,  white  mass  of  foam  and  deafening  you  with 
its  thunder.  If  the  sun  is  shining  you  may  see  rain- 
bows playing  about  it,  and  in  any  event  you  will  get 
a  wetting  from  the  spray.  A  wall  of  rock  rises  above 
you  and  there  is  scarcely  room  to  take  a  step,  so 
close  to  your  feet  lies  the  deep  water.  There  are  big 
wise  trout  in  this  pool,  the  people  say,  but  it  takes 
a  very  wise  angler  to  lure  them  out. 

Getting  back  again  is  worse  than  getting  down. 
Unfortunately  gravity  prevents  sliding  up,  and  a 
sudden  descent  into  Avernus  seems  quite  fearfully 
imminent  as  you  slip  and  struggle  and  cling  to  the 
rhododendrons.    But  before  starting  up  you  can  if 


344       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

you  like  follow  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  as  far  as 
your  nerve  lasts,  for  the  path  is  over  rhododendron 
roots  that  have  fastened  themselves  into  the  face  of 
the  rock.  How  they  got  footing  here  is  a  mystery; 
but  here  they  are,  and  in  behind  their  contorted 
limbs  you  creep  along  like  an  ant,  hoping  with  every 
step  that  the  roots  will  not  give  way. 

This  path,  that  grows  less  as  it  goes  on,  is  followed 
by  ardent  fishermen,  who  either  go  back  if  it  gets  too 
lonesome  for  them,  or  else  keep  on.  For  if  you  keep 
on  long  enough  you  can  get  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  gorge,  —  not  so  hastily  as  the  descripton  may 
seem  to  imply,  though  that  too  is  possible,  —  and 
when  you  get  down,  it  must  be  almost  worth  the 
effort,  for  you  will  find  yourself  in  the  famous  Lin- 
ville  Gorge  that  for  the  next  ten  miles  is  seldom 
traveled  by  a  human  being,  although  it  is  the  finest 
trout  stream  in  the  mountains.  The  river  runs  be- 
tween walls  that  rise  many  hundreds  of  feet  high, 
and  in  some  places  the  gorge  is  so  narrow  that  there 
is  room  only  for  the  river,  and  he  who  ventures  in 
must  wade  as  best  he  can  through  the  swift  water  as 
it  dashes  about  and  over  the  rocks  and  boulders. 
Those  who  have  been  in  the  gorge  speak  enthusias- 
tically of  its  grandeur  and  beauty. 

Ordinary  humanity,  however,  views  the  fall  from 
a  point  down  the  ravine,  on  top  instead  of  at 
the  bottom  of  the  mountain  wall.  To  get  to  this 
point  you  follow  a  path  partly  through  a  scrubby 
undergrowth,  partly  through  dark  pine  reaches 
that  make  soft  walking,   and   where   the  edge  of 


LINVILLE  FALLS  345 

the  abyss  is  hidden  by  impenetrable  rhododendron 
jungles. 

When  you  get  to  the  open,  rocky  edge,  you  forget 
to  look  upstream  to  the  fall,  because  of  the  wonder- 
ful blanket  of  trees  that  covers  the  opposite  side  of 
the  narrow  gorge.  There  is  nothing  like  it:  the  walls 
seem  made  of  foliage;  the  river  far  below  runs 
through  walls  of  living  green,  the  crowns  of  superb 
forest  trees  that  have  managed  to  grow  on  what 
appears  to  be  an  upright  cliff.  You  scarcely  see  the 
stems,  only  the  green  crowns  of  the  hardwood  trees 
blending  their  colors  and  their  shapes  with  black 
interspersed  shadows  and  interw^oven  with  the  dark- 
green  of  firs  and  the  pale  feathery  effect  of  white 
pines,  a  marvelous  tapestry  wrought  by  the  hand  of 
nature. 

The  steepness  of  the  walls  makes  this  growth  of 
large  trees  the  more  remarkable,  and  your  heart 
aches  to  recall  that  this  whole  gorge,  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  mountains,  has  been  bought  by  a 
lumber  company.  But  looking  at  that  tapestried 
wall  falling  sheer  into  the  mountain  torrent  below, 
your  sympathy  takes  a  humorous  leap  to  the  side  of 
the  lumber  company.  Any  tree  they  can  get  out  of 
there  they  will  have  earned!  Float  the  logs  down- 
stream? "Not  down  that  stream,  unless  you  want  to 
collect  wood  pulp  somewhere  beyond  the  foothills," 
a  man  who  knows  the  gorge  assures  you. 

As  you  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice  you 
hear  the  confused  thunder  of  the  fall,  that  at  this 
distance  is  a  mere  white  ribbon  hung  from  the  end 


346        THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

of  the  gorge.  Its  voice  alone  asserts  Its  Importance. 
And  how  Insistent,  how  unbroken,  how  hard  and 
tiresome  it  is,  a  stupid  unchanging  roar,  and  blended 
with  it  is  an  echo  as  unresonant  and  monotonous  as 
itself.  You  find  yourself  listening  for  a  change  that 
never  comes,  except  a  loudening  when  the  wind 
blows  towards  you. 

Irritated  by  the  monotonous  sounds  you  go  on  and 
around  a  curve  out  of  sight  of  the  vociferous  ribbon. 
You  seat  yourself  on  a  bed  of  dry,  crackling  moss 
that  sends  out  waves  of  fragrance  every  time  you 
move.  Here  the  murmur  of  the  far-down  river 
blends  with  the  dull  roar  of  the  cataract.  This  voice 
of  the  river  is  full  of  modulations,  the  harsh  sound 
of  conflict  has  given  place  to  gentler  tones  and  the 
subdued  roar  of  the  fall  itself  now  makes  an  agree- 
able accompaniment. 

To  the  song  of  the  river  Is  here  also  added  voices 
from  the  forest,  a  sighing  from  the  pine  trees  over- 
head, gentle  rustlings  from  the  crisp  shrubs,  a  stac- 
cato chirp  from  the  grass,  a  trill  from  some  bird  in 
the  air,  the  clapping  of  a  woodpecker  on  a  dead  tree, 
the  drumming  of  some  unknown  creature,  the  tick- 
ing of  a  borer  In  a  dead  log.  There  are  drowsy  notes 
in  this  orchestra  of  the  summer,  with  which  the 
mighty  perfume  of  the  earth  seems  gradually  to 
blend,  and  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  mingle  and  hold 
all  together  In  its  tenuous  threads  —  and  —  and  — 
the  sun  conquers  and  you  are  sound  asleep  on  the 
fragrant  mosses,  although  it  is  mid-afternoon  and 
you  have  planned  a  walk  down  that  long  ridge  where 


LINVILLE   FALLS  347 

the  huckleberries  grow.  Thanks,  oh,  sun!  —  there  is 
something  altogether  lovely  in  falling  thus  asleep 
against  one's  judgment. 

There  are  "chimneys"  over  the  edge  of  the  preci- 
pice, whose  tops  have  been  conquered  by  brave  little 
fir  trees,  and  mossy  things  and  a  few  flowers.  And 
the  precipice  itself,  do  you  realize  that  you  are  hang- 
ing your  feet  over  the  edge  of  the  mountains  —  that 
the  wall  across  the  river  belongs  to  the  foothill  form- 
ations? 

What  a  sweet  place  is  this  edge  of  the  high  world! 
On  a  mountain-top  all  things  unite  to  smell  sweet, 
and  on  none  more  than  on  this.  Crisp  moss  crackles 
whenever  you  move,  hard-leaved,  red-stemmed 
huckleberries  crowd  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  and 
Dendrium  buxophyllum,  whose  thick  carpet  is  seen  to 
be  made  of  tiny  imitations  of  rhododendron  bushes 
shares  the  crannies  with  other  lovely  growths.  But 
everywhere,  and  by  far  the  choicest  thing  here,  is  a 
species  of  dwarf  rhododendron  with  a  charming 
architectural  structure,  the  curving  brown  stems 
crowned  with  upward-pointing,  curled  little  leaves, 
green  above,  the  under  side  dusted  with  a  rich  brown 
bloom,  the  red-tinged  veins  and  red  petioles  giving 
a  red  flush  to  the  whole  plant.  Seed  pods  on  these 
charming  shrubs  tell  of  bloom  earlier  in  the  season, 
and  who  would  not  be  here  then!  It  would  be  hard 
to  imagine  a  wilder,  sweeter  place  than  this  edge, 
overlooking  the  gorge.  To  be  here  fills  you  with 
contentment.  You  imagine  you  would  like  to  stay 
with  the  rabbits  the  rest  of  the  summer. 


348       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

The  long  and  narrow  Linville  Mountain  that 
borders  the  gorge  on  the  west  is  not  very  well 
known  to  outsiders,  but  the  people  tell  you  of  won- 
derful minerals  there,  among  them  large  quantities 
of  flexible  sandstone.  The  Linville  Country  is  very 
wild,  but  nowhere  does  the  galax  more  riotously 
abound,  this  region  being  one  of  the  favorite  col- 
lecting grounds  for  this  charming  little  plant. 


XXXII 

BLOWING    ROCK 

THE  noble  Grandfather  towers  head  and  shoul- 
ders above  the  sea  of  mountains  that  surrounds 
it.  It  is  the  giant  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  and  in  a  sense 
dominates  the  whole  Appalachian  uplift,  not  be- 
cause of  its  superior  height,  —  we  know  how  many 
higher  mountains  there  are,  —  but  because  it  is  so 
commanding.  For  Nature  fashions  mountains  as 
she  does  men,  here  and  there  one  so  striking  that  it 
becomes  a  landmark  for  its  era. 

The  Grandfather  was  believed  to  be  the  highest 
mountain  in  the  eastern  half  of  the  United  States 
until,  not  so  very  long  ago,  the  surveyors  came  with 
their  instruments  and  told  the  people  there  were 
forty  mountains  in  North  Carolina  and  Tennessee 
higher  than  the  Grandfather.  But  of  course  nobody 
believed  it:  the  people  who  had  always  lived  under 
the  shadow  of  the  great  mountain  knew  better  than 
those  men  who  flew  in  one  day  and  out  the  next. 

The  surveyors  were  doubtless  right  in  a  way,  but 
theirs  was  that  mere  scientific  accuracy  that  proves 
nothing  but  the  fact.  Beyond  that  lies  the  real  truth 
of  the  matter;  forty  mountains  may  measure  higher, 
but  to  those  who  know  the  Grandfather,  not  one  is 
really  quite  so  high.  In  1794,  the  French  botanist, 
Andr6  Michaux,  wrote  of  the  Grandfather  Moun- 


350       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

tain,  "Aug.  30,  climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  highest 
mountain  of  all  North  America  with  my  guide,  and 
sang  the  Marseillaise  Hymn,  and  cried,  'Long  live 
America  and  the  French  Republic!  Long  live 
liberty!'" 

The  mountain  owes  its  supremacy  not  only  to  the 
comparative  insignificance  of  its  near  neighbors,  but 
to  its  position  at  the  point  where  the  Blue  Ridge 
makes  a  sudden  turn,  swinging  as  it  were  about  the 
Grandfather  as  about  a  pivot,  the  mountain  rising 
in  splendid  sweep  directly  up  from  the  abysmal 
depths  of  the  foothills,  with  no  Intervening  terraces. 
It  has  the  effect  of  standing  alone,  its  feet  in  the  far- 
down  valleys,  its  head  in  the  clouds.  It  is  also  notable 
for  its  striking  summit  of  bare  rock  as  black  as  ink, 
a  long,  scalloped  line  as  seen  from  Blowing  Rock,  a 
sharp  tooth  as  seen  coming  towards  it  from  LInvIlle 
Falls.  These  bare,  rocky  summits  are  peculiar  to 
the  mountains  of  this  region,  as  cliffy  walls  are  of  the 
Highlands  country.  None  of  these  summits,  however, 
can  approach  the  Grandfather's  black  top  in  size 
and  impresslveness.  It  being  a  landmark  far  and  near. 

The  most  impressive  view  of  the  Grandfather  Is 
from  Blowing  Rock  that  lies  some  twenty  miles  to 
the  east  of  it  on  a  brink  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  which 
there  makes  a  drop  of  a  thousand  feet  or  more  into 
the  foothills  below.  From  Blowing  Rock  to  Tryon 
Mountain  the  Blue  Ridge  draws  a  deep  curve  half 
encircling  a  jumble  of  very  wild  rocky  peaks  and 
cliffs  that  belong  to  the  foothill  formations.  Hence 
Blowing  Rock,  lying  on  one  arm  of  a  horseshoe  of 


BLOWING   ROCK  351 

which  Tryon  Mountain  is  the  other  arm,  has  the 
most  dramatic  outlook  of  any  village  in  the  moun- 
tains. Directly  in  front  of  it  is  an  enormous  bowl 
filled  with  a  thousand  tree-clad  hills  and  ridges  that 
become  higher  and  wilder  towards  the  encircling 
wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  the  conspicuous  bare  stone 
summits  of  Hawk's  Bill  and  Table  Rock  Mountains 
rising  sharp  as  dragon's  teeth  above  the  rest,  while 
the  sheer  and  shining  face  of  the  terrible  Lost  Cove 
cliffs,  dropping  into  some  unexplored  ravine,  come 
to  view  on  a  clear  day.  Far  away,  beyond  this  wild 
bowlful  of  mountains,  one  sometimes  sees  a  faintly 
outlined  dome,  Tryon  Mountain,  under  which  on 
the  other  side  one  likes  to  remember  lies  Traumfest, 
Fortress  of  Dreams. 

Off  to  the  left  from  Blowing  Rock,  seen  between 
near  green  knobs,  the  shoreless  sea  of  the  lowlands 
reaches  away  to  lave  the  edge  of  the  sky.  And  look- 
ing to  the  right,  there  lies  the  calm  and  noble  form  of 
the  Grandfather  Mountain,  its  rocky  top  drawn  in  a 
series  of  curves  against  the  western  sky.  Long  spurs 
sweep  down  like  buttresses  to  hold  it.  Trees  clothe 
it  as  with  a  garment  to  where  the  black  rock  sur- 
mounts them. 

The  view  from  Blowing  Rock  changes  continually. 
The  atmospheric  sea  that  incloses  mountain  and 
valley  melts  the  solid  rocks  into  a  thousand  enchant- 
ing pictures.  Those  wild  shapes  in  the  great  basin 
which  at  one  time  look  so  near,  so  hard,  and  so  terri- 
ble, at  another  time  recede  and  soften,  their  dark  col- 
ors transmuted  into  the  tender  blue  of   the  Blue 


352       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Ridge,  or  again  the  basin  is  filled  with  dreamlike 
forms  immersed  in  an  exquisite  sea  of  mystical  light. 

Sometimes  the  Grandfather  Mountain  stands 
solidly  out,  showing  in  detail  the  tapestry  of  green 
trees  that  hangs  over  its  slopes ;  again  it  is  blue  and 
flat  against  the  sky,  or  it  seems  made  of  mists  and 
shadows.  Sometimes  the  sunset  glory  penetrates,  as 
it  were,  into  the  substance  of  the  mountain,  which 
looks  translucent  in  the  sea  of  light  that  contains  it. 
As  night  draws  on,  it  darkens  into  a  noble  silhouette 
against  the  splendor  that  often  draws  the  curves  of 
its  summit  in  lines  of  fire. 

Blowing  Rock  at  times  lies  above  the  clouds,  with 
all  the  world  blotted  out  excepting  the  Grand- 
father's summit  rising  out  of  the  white  mists.  Some- 
times one  looks  out  in  the  morning  to  see  that  great 
bowl  filled  to  the  brim  with  level  cloud  that  reaches 
away  from  one's  very  feet  in  a  floor  so  firm  to  the 
eye  that  one  is  tempted  to  step  out  on  it.  Presently 
this  pure  white,  level  floor  begins  to  roll  up  into  bil- 
lowy masses,  deep  wells  open,  down  which  one  looks 
to  little  landscapes  lying  in  the  bottom,  a  bit  of  the 
lovely  John's  River  Valley,  a  house  and  trees,  per- 
haps. The  well  closes;  the  higher  peaks  begin  to 
appear,  phantom  islands  in  a  phantom  sea;  the  rest- 
less ocean  of  mists  swells  and  rolls,  now  concealing, 
now  revealing  glimpses  of  the  world  under  it.  It 
breaks  apart  into  fantastic  forms  that  begin  to  glide 
up  the  peaks  and  mount  above  them  like  wraiths. 
The'sun  darts  sheafs  of  golden  arrows  in  through  the 
openings,  and  these  in  time  slay  the  pale  dragons  of 


BLOWING  ROCK  353 

the  air,  or  drive  them  fleeing  into  the  far  blue  caverns 
of  the  sky,  and  the  world  beneath  is  visible,  only  that 
where  the  John's  River  Valley  ought  to  be  there 
often  remains  a  long  lake  of  snowy  drift.  Sometimes 
the  clouds  blotting  out  the  landscape  break  apart 
suddenly,  the  mountains  come  swiftly  forth  one 
after  the  other  until  one  seems  to  be  watching  an  act 
of  creation  where  solid  forms  resolve  themselves  out 
of  chaos.  The  peaceful  John's  River  Valley,  winding 
far  below  among  the  wild  mountains,  is  like  a  glimpse 
into  fairyland,  and  one  has  never  ventured  to  go 
there  for  fear  of  dispelling  the  pleasing  illusion. 

Near  the  village  of  Blowing  Rock,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  those  green  knobs  between  which  one  looks 
to  the  lowlands,  is  a  high  cliff,  the  real  Blowing  Rock, 
so  named  because  the  rocky  walls  at  this  point  form 
a  flume  through  which  the  northwest  wind  sweeps 
with  such  force  that  whatever  is  thrown  over  the 
rock  is  hurled  back  again.  It  is  said  that  there  are 
times  when  a  man  could  not  jump  over,  so  tremend- 
ous is  the  force  of  the  wind.  It  is  also  said  that  vis- 
itors, having  heard  the  legend  of  the  rock,  have  been 
seen  to  stand  there  in  a  dead  calm  and  throw  over 
their  possessions  and  watch  them  more  in  anger 
than  in  mirth  as  they,  obedient  to  the  law  of  gravity 
instead  of  that  of  fancy,  disappeared  beneath  the 
tree-tops  far  below. 

Blowing  Rock,  four  thousand  feet  above  sea-level, 
is  a  wonderfully  sweet  place.  The  rose-bay  and  the 
great  white  Rhododendron  maximum  crowd  against 
the  houses  and  fill  the  open  spaces,  excepting  where 


354       THE. CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

laurel  and  the  flame-colored  azaleas  have  planted 
their  standards.  And  in  their  seasons  the  wild  flow- 
ers blossom  everywhere;  also  the  rocks  are  covered 
with  those  crisp,  sweet-smelling  herbs  that  love 
high  places,  and  sedums  and  saxifrages  trim  the 
crevices  and  the  ledges. 

Blowing  Rock  is  also  noted  for  the  great  variety 
of  new  mushrooms  that  have  been  captured  there, 
though  one  suspects  this  renown  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  mushroom  hunters  happened  to  pitch  their 
tents  here  instead  of  somewhere  else.  For  other  parts 
of  the  mountains  can  make  a  showing  in  mushrooms, 
too. 

It  sometimes  rains  at  Blowing  Rock,  but  there  are 
other  times  when  one  stands  there  on  the  brink  in 
bright  sunshine  and  sees,  it  may  be,  four  showers 
descending  on  different  parts  of  the  country  at  once. 

Blowing  Rock  has  long  been  a  favorite  summer 
resort,  and  at  present  is  most  easily  reached  by  way 
of  a  drive  twenty  miles  long,  up  the  ridges  from 
Lenoir,  where  a  short  branch  railroad  connects  with 
the  main  line  at  Hickory. 

At  Blowing  Rock,  the  Blue  Ridge,  as  so  often  hap- 
pens along  its  course,  presents  a  steep  wall  towards 
the  foothills,  but  keeps  its  elevation  at  the  top, 
extending  back  in  a  wide  plateau ;  hence  the  country 
back  of  Blowing  Rock  and  the  Grandfather  Moun- 
tain has  a  general  elevation  of  from  three  thousand 
to  four  thousand  feet;  that  is,  the  valley  bottoms  are 
thus  high,  which  is  what  gives  to  this  part  of  the 
country  its  peculiar  charm.  It  is  the  walker's  para- 


BLOWING   ROCK  355 

disc,  deliciously  cool  all  summer,  and  totally  free 
from  any  form  of  insect  pest.  South  of  the  Grand- 
father the  valley  bottoms  average  about  a  thousand 
feet  lower,  although  one  there  finds  the  highest 
mountains.  But  there  are  no  finer  views  any\vhere 
than  from  the  Grandfather,  the  Beech,  and  other 
high  summits  of  the  Grandfather  countr>'.  And  here 
as  elsewhere  the  people  are  so  friendly  and  so  good 
that  one  can  if  so  inclined  start  out  alone  and  with 
perfect  safety  spend  weeks  walking  from  place  to 
place,  stopping  at  the  little  villages  for  the  night  or 
where  there  are  none,  with  whoever  happens  to  be 
nearest  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

Leaving  Blowing  Rock  one  day  in  mid-June,  you 
perhaps  will  walk  away  to  Boone,  some  ten  miles 
distant,  three  miles  of  the  way  a  lane  close-hedged 
on  either  side  with  gnarled  and  twisted  old  laurel 
trees  heavy-laden  with  bloom  so  that  the  crisp 
fiower  cups  shower  about  you  as  you  pass  and  the 
air  is  full  of  their  bitter,  tonic  fragrance.  Large 
rhododendrons  stand  among  the  laurel,  but  their 
great  flower  clusters  are  as  yet  imprisoned  beneath 
the  strong  bud-scales.  When  the  laurel  is  done 
blooming,  you  will  perceive  that  you  must  come  this 
way  again  for  the  sake  of  the  rhododendrons.  Little 
streams  of  cr\'stal  clearness  come  out  from  under  the 
blossoming  laurel,  flash  across  the  road,  and  disap- 
pear under  the  laurel  on  the  other  side.  How  sweet 
the  air  where  all  the  odors  of  the  forest  are  inter- 
woven with  the  bitter-sweet  smell  of  the  close-press- 
ing flowers!    How  the  pulse  quickens  as  one  steps 


356       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

along.   Is  that  a  bird?  Or  is  it  your  own  heart  sing- 
ing? 

Before  the  first  freshness  of  that  laurel-hedged 
road  has  begun  to  dim  from  familiarity,  you  emerge 
into  the  open  where  the  view  is  of  wide,  rolling  slopes, 
green  hills  and  valleys  dotted  with  roofs,  and  beyond 
these  the  great  blue  distant  mountains  soaring  up 
into  the  sky.  That  steep  hill  to  your  left  is  bright- 
red  with  sorrel,  a  sorry  crop  for  the  farmer,  but  a 
lovely  spot  of  color  in  the  landscape.  You  climb 
up  this  sorrel-red  hill  to  the  top  of  Flat  Top  Moun- 
tain, up  over  the  rough  stones  and  the  dark-red  sorrel 
to  where  the  view  is  wide  and  fine.  But  Flat  Top 
Mountain  offers  you  more  than  a  view.  It  is  noon 
when  you  get  there,  for  you  have  not  hurried,  but 
have  stopped  every  moment  to  smell  or  to  see,  or 
just  to  breathe  and  breathe  as  though  you  could  thus 
fill  your  bodily  tissues  with  freshness  and  fragrance 
to  last  Into  your  remotest  life.  As  you  climb  up 
Flat  Top,  you  detect  a  fragrance  that  does  not  come 
from  the  flowers,  a  warm,  delicious  fragrance  that 
makes  you  look  eagerly  at  the  ground.  Seeing 
nothing,  you  go  on  half  disappointed,  half  buoyant 
with  the  certainty  of  success  —  ah,  it  comes  again, 
that  delicious  warm  fragrance.  You  abandon  your- 
self to  primitive  instincts  and  trusting  your  senses 
turn  about  and  walk  straight  to  where  the  ground  Is 
red  with  ripe  strawberries.  You  sit  down  on  the 
warm  grass  and  taste  the  delectable  fruit.  A  bird  Is 
singing  from  a  bush  as  though  sharing  in  your 
pleasure.  When  you  have  gathered  the  best  within 


BLOWING   ROCK  357 

reach,  you  lie  back  and  watch  the  clouds  sailing  like 
white  swans  across  the  sky.  Then  you  take  out  the 
bread  you  have  brought,  the  most  delicious  bread 
ever  baked,  for  it  has  in  some  magical  way  acquired 
a  flavor  of  blossoming  laurel,  and  rippling  brooks, 
and  blue  sky,  and  the  joy  of  muscles  in  motion,  of 
deep-drawn  breath,  of  the  lassitude  of  delicious 
exercise,  with  a  lingering  flavor  of  the  spicy  berries 
whose  fragrance  is  in  the  air  about  you.  Such  bread 
as  this  is  never  eaten  within  the  walls  of  a  house. 
And  then  you  rest  on  the  warm  hillside  fanned  by 
the  cool  breeze,  for  no  matter  how  hot  the  summer 
sun,  there  is  always  a  cool  breeze  in  the  high  world 
at  the  back  of  the  Grandfather.  Before  starting  on, 
you  must  taste  again  of  the  exquisite  feast  spread 
for  you  and  the  birds,  whose  wings  you  hear  as  they 
come  and  go,  fearless  and  ungrudging,  for  there  is 
enough  for  all. 

Farther  along  on  the  mountain  stands  an  old 
weather-boarded  house  whence  you  see  Boone  in  the 
distance  lying  so  sweetly  among  its  mountains.  A 
path  here  leads  you  down  to  a  deserted  cabin  in  a 
lovely  hollow.  That  well-worn  path  at  the  doorstep 
leads  to  the  spring  only  a  few  steps  away,  such  a 
spring  as  one  is  always  looking  for  and  always  finding 
at  the  back  of  the  Grandfather.  Its  water  is  icy  cold 
and  it  is  walled  about  with  moss-covered,  fern-grown 
stones.  This  cabin  in  the  lovely  hollow,  with  its  ice- 
cold  spring,  the  surrounding  fruit  trees,  the  signs 
of  flowers  once  cultivated,  gives  you  a  strange  im- 
pulse to  stop  here,  like  a  bird  that  has  found  its  nest, 


358       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

but  you  go  on  along  a  woodsy  by-road  whose  banks 
are  covered  with  pale-green  ferns,  and  where  the 
large  spiraea  in  snowy  bloom  stands  so  close  as  almost 
to  form  a  hedge.  The  velvety  dark-green  leaves  of 
wild  hydrangea  crowd  everywhere,  its  broad  flat 
heads  of  showy  buds  just  ready  to  open.  Enormous 
wild  gooseberries  invite  you  to  taste  and  impishly 
prick  your  tongue  if  you  do.  The  blackberries  make 
a  great  show,  but  are  not  yet  ripe.  The  roadside 
now  and  then  is  bordered  with  ripe  strawberries. 
This  shady  way  brings  you  again  into  the  "main 
leadin'  road"  you  left  some  distance  back  when  you 
climbed  the  sorrel-red  hill  to  the  top  of  Flat  Top 
Mountain,  and  which  now  also  has  its  wealth  of 
flowers,  among  which  the  pure-white  tapers  of  the 
galax  shine  out  from  the  woods,  while  here  and  there 
a  service  tree  drops  coral  berries  at  your  feet. 

Soon  now  you  cross  the  deep,  wide  ford  of  Mill 
River  on  a  footbridge,  substantial  and  with  a  hand- 
rail, and  where  you  stop  of  course  to  look  both  up 
and  down  the  stream  overhung  with  foliage,  and  just 
beyond  which  is  a  pretty  house  with  its  front  yard 
full  of  roses.  It  is  only  two  miles  from  here  to  Boone, 
and  you  breathe  a  sigh  of  regret  at  being  so  near  the 
end  of  the  day's  walk;  yet  when  you  find  yourself 
in  Mrs.  Coffey's  little  inn  with  its  bright  flowers  you 
are  glad  to  sit  down  and  think  over  the  events  of  the 
day. 

Boone,  at  the  foot  of  Howard  Knob,  Is  a  pretty 
snuggle  of  houses  running  along  a  single  street. 
Boone  says  it  is  the   highest   county  seat  in  the 


BLOWING   ROCK  359 

United  States,  and  that  Daniel  Boone  once  stayed 
in  a  cabin  near  here,  whence  its  name.  However  all 
that  may  be,  the  lower  slopes  of  Howard  Knob  are 
pleasantly  cultivated  and  valleys  run  up  into  the 
mountains  in  all  directions,  as  though  on  purpose 
to  make  a  charming  setting  for  Boone  the  county 
seat. 

That  first  visit  to  Boone !  —  what  a  sense  of  peace 
one  had  in  remembering  that  the  nearest  railroad 
was  thirty  miles  away;  and  then,  —  what  is  that?  — 
a  telephone  bell  rings  its  insistent  call  and  Boone  is 
talking  with  Blowing  Rock,  or  Lenoir,  or  New  York 
City,  or  Heaven  knows  where!  For  though  this 
part  of  the  country  was  the  last  to  get  into  railroad 
communication  with  the  outer  world,  it  was  by  no 
means  the  last  to  grasp  the  opportunities  within 
reach. 

With  what  delicious  weariness  one  sinks  to  sleep 
after  the  day's  walk  over  the  hills !  Your  eyes  seem 
scarcely  to  have  closed  when  a  loud  noise  wakens 
you  with  a  start  —  what  is  it?  Nothing  excepting 
that  the  day's  work  has  begun,  broad  daylight  flood- 
ing in  at  the  window.  Breakfast  is  ready,  cofTee, 
cornbread,  fish  from  some  near  sparkling  stream, 
rice,  hot  biscuit,  eggs,  wild-plum  sauce,  honey  and 
wild  strawberries  —  you  can  take  your  choice  or 
eat  them  all.  And  what  a  pleasant  surprise  to  find 
ever>-  thing  seasoned  with  the  wonderful  appetite  of 
childhood,  that  reappears  on  such  occasions  as  this! 

Your  body  seems  borne  on  wings,  so  light  it  feels 
as  you  leave  the  inn  and  again  take  to  the  road. 


36o       THE   CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

Back  to  Blowing  Rock?  No,  indeed ;  not  even  though 
you  could  return,  part  way  at  least,  by  another  road. 
The  Wanderlust  is  on  you  —  the  need  of  walking 
along  the  high  valleys  among  the  enchanted  moun- 
tains. That  seems  the  thing  in  life  worth  doing.  As 
you  leave  Boone  you  notice  a  meadow  white  with 
ox-eye  daisies,  and  among  them  big  red  clover-heads, 
and,  if  you  please,  clumps  of  black-eyed  Susans  — 
for  all  the  world  like  a  summer  meadow  in  the  New 
England  hills.  Ripe  strawberries  hang  over  the  edge 
of  the  road. 

From  Boone  to  Valle  Crucis  you  must  go  the 
longest  way,  for  so  you  get  the  best  views,  the  people 
tell  you.  And  so  you  go  a  day's  walk  to  Valle  Crucis, 
where  the  Episcopal  settlement  lies  in  the  fine  green 
little  valley. 

From  Valle  Crucis  to  Banner  Elk,  under  the  Beech 
Mountain,  is  another  day's  walk,  when  again  you 
take  the  longest  way,  up  Dutch  Creek  to  see  the 
pretty  waterfall  there,  and  where  the  clematis  is  a 
white  veil  over  the  bushes,  and  up  the  steep  road  by 
Hanging  Rock  where  the  gold  tree  grows.  This  is  an 
oak,  known  far  and  near  because  its  top  is  always 
golden  yellow.  The  leaves  come  out  yellow  in  the 
spring,  remain  so  all  summer,  and  in  the  fall  would 
doubtless  turn  yellow  if  they  were  not  already  that 
color.  The  people  say  there  is  a  pot  of  gold  buried 
at  the  roots,  but  this  pleasant  fancy  has  not  taken 
a  serious  enough  hold  to  menace  the  life  of  the  tree. 

Stopping  at  a  picturesque,  old-time  log  house  to 
rest,  a  little  girl  invites  you  to  go  to  the  top  of  Hang- 


BLOWING  ROCK  361 

ing  Rock,  which  invitation  you  gladly  accept,  there- 
by getting  one  of  the  most  enjoyable  walks  of  the 
summer,  your  little  guide  telling  you  all  the  way 
about  the  flowers  and  the  birds,  and  stopping  under 
an  overhanging  cliff  with  great  secrecy  to  show  you 
a  round  little  bird's  nest  with  eggs  in  it  cleverly 
hidden  in  the  moss.  One  suspects  it  was  the  chance 
to  show  this  treasure  that  led  the  child  to  propose 
the  long  climb  to  the  top  of  the  mountain.  The 
gooseberries  of  Hanging  Rock  are  without  prickles, 
perhaps  because  the  wild  currants  growing  there 
have  stolen  them.  Imagine  prickly  currants!  There 
is  plenty  of  galax  on  Hanging  Rock,  and  mosses  and 
sedums  and  all  the  other  growths  that  make  moun- 
tain-tops so  agreeable.  The  top  of  Hanging  Rock  is 
a  slanting  ledge,  from  which  the  mountain  gets  its 
name.  At  Banner  Elk  you  will  want  to  stay  awhile, 
it  is  so  pretty,  and  you  will  also  want  to  climb  the 
beautiful  Beech  Mountain  with  its  grassy  spaces 
and  its  charming  beech  groves. 

From  Banner  Elk  you  take  the  short  walk  over  to 
"Galloways,"  close  under  the  shadow  of  the  Grand- 
father, and  from  here  the  long  and  beautiful  walk 
down  the  Watauga  River  at  the  base  of  the  Grand- 
father, then  along  the  ridges  back  to  Blowing  Rock, 
watching  as  you  go  details  of  the  mountain  beneath 
whose  northern  front  you  are  passing.  The  open 
benches,  the  rocky  bluffs,  and  abrupt,  tree-clad  walls, 
of  this  side  of  the  mountain,  which  we  call  the  back 
of  the  Grandfather,  are  not  impressive  like  those 
long  southern  slopes  sweeping  from  a  summit  of  a 


362        THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

little  less  than  six  thousand  feet  down  into  the  foot- 
hills. For  the  mountain  on  this  side  is  stopped  by 
the  high  plateau  from  which  it  rises.  Yet  it  is  good 
to  be  at  the  back  of  the  Grandfather.  From  the 
Watauga  road  we  see  the  profile  from  which  the 
mountain  is  said  to  have  received  its  name,  although 
one  gets  a  better  and  far  more  impressive  view  of  it 
from  a  certain  point  on  the  mountain  itself. 

And  so  you  return  to  Blowing  Rock  after  days  of 
wandering,  only  to  rest  awhile  and  start  again,  gain- 
ing endurance  with  every  trip  until  the  ten  miles* 
walk  that  cost  you  a  little  weariness  becomes  the 
twenty  miles'  walk  that  costs  you  none.  You  cannot 
tire  of  the  road,  for  every  mile  brings  new  sights, 
new  sounds,  new  fragrances,  new  friends,  new  flowers, 
one  charm  of  walking  here  being  the  endless  variety. 
No  two  days  are  alike,  each  has  its  own  pleasant 
adventures. 


XXXIII 

THE  GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN 

DOWN  in  the  plains  and  in  all  the  cities  it  is 
August.  Up  here  it  is  some  celestial  month  not 
mentioned  in  any  calendar.  For  we  are  camping  at 
the  back  of  the  Grandfather  Mountain;  our  tents 
are  pitched  on  a  slope  that  is  separated  from  the 
base  of  the  mountain  by  a  narrow,  wedge-like  little 
valley  down  which  ripples  the  silvery  beginning  of 
the  Watauga  River.  To  be  at  the  beginning  of  a 
river  is  guaranty  of  many  pleasant  things.  Opposite 
us  the  mountain  rises,  steep,  rough,  and  covered 
with  beautiful  growths.  It  is  so  near  we  can  see  the 
shades  of  green  and  even  make  out  the  forms  of  the 
tree-tops.  On  its  side  the  clouds  form,  welling  up 
as  from  a  caldron  of  the  storm  gods.  We  are  shut  in 
by  tree-clad  slopes,  excepting  towards  the  east,  where 
the  view  opens  down  the  valley  upon  distant  blue 
hills. 

Ripe  blackberries  hang  over  the  roadside,  and  the 
bushes  growing  about  the  rocks  in  an  abandoned 
field  near  us  are  loaded  with  extra  good  fruit.  There 
is  a  certain  pleasure  in  gathering  one's  food  from  the 
bushes;  one  is  apt  to  gather  so  much  more  than 
bodily  sustenance.  You  think  of  things  in  a  berry 
patch,  for  instance,  that  never  come  to  you  any- 
where else ;  you  solve  the  problems  of  the  universe 


364       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

differently.  In  a  brier  patch  you  think  in  cycles  and 
flavor  your  food  with  dashes  of  cosmic  philosophy. 
And  there  is  profit  as  well  as  pleasure  in  gather- 
ing your  food  from  the  bushes.  At  the  back  of  the 
Grandfather,  berries  are  important  in  our  daily  fare. 
We  eat  them  as  they  grow,  and  also  prepared  in 
many  ways.  We  make  discoveries  in  culinary  aesthe- 
tics as  well  as  in  cosmic  philosophy,  dealing  with 
blackberries.  You  have  never  really  tasted  a  black- 
berry pudding,  for  instance,  until  you  have  stood  on 
a  stone  in  the  Watauga  River,  stripped  the  heavy, 
shining  clusters  of  ripe  fruit  into  your  tin  "  bucket," 
carried  them  back  to  camp,  and  made  your  pudding; 
for  your  true  blackberry  pudding  must  be  flavored 
with  warm  sunshine  glinting  between  green  leaves, 
the  sparkle  of  running  water,  and  the  remembered 
fragrances  of  herbs  and  trees  and  bushes,  with  mem- 
ories of  pleasant  reveries,  and  it  does  it  no  harm  to 
be  spiced  with  scratches. 

There  is  a  certain  sensuous  pleasure  to  be  derived 
from  the  scratches  of  a  berry  patch.  The  hot  rip  of 
the  thorn  through  the  skin,  the  crimson  line  of  blood 
that  appears  at  the  surface,  but  does  not  overflow, 
the  tingling  sensation  that  courses  over  your  whole 
body  for  a  moment,  —  for  this  you  willingly  endure 
the  smart  that  comes  for  hours  afterwards  whenever 
your  wounded  members  touch  anything.  Moreover, 
you  would  endure  the  scratches  so  soon  forgotten  for 
the  memory  that  lasts  of  the  feel  of  the  sun,  of  the 
beleaguering  fragrances,  and  for  the  rich  booty  you 
carry  home. 


THE  GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN     365 

And  your  blackberry  pudding,  to  be  perfect,  must 
be  eaten  in  a  tent,  or  sitting  on  a  rock  by  a  brookside, 
or  in  a  shakedown  bower  under  a  big  tree.  Our 
dining-room  is  a  bower  roofed  with  evergreen  boughs. 
Out  through  the  open  front,  through  the  overhang- 
ing ends  of  the  evergreen  boughs,  we  see  the  top  of 
the  Grandfather  Mountain  and  the  clouds  that  come 
and  go  over  it. 

The  country  people  bring  us  food,  apples,  butter, 
eggs,  and  milk.  The  butter  comes  out  of  a  tall 
earthenware  churn  whose  dasher  is  moved  up  and 
down  by  a  mountain  friend  whom  we  sec  sitting  in 
the  doorway  of  her  house  busily  churning,  with  a 
background  of  the  black  interior  in  which  are  faintly 
outlined  the  kitchen  utensils.  Under  the  slopes  of 
the  Grandfather  we  go  down  the  valley  to  pictur- 
esque houses  shaded  by  fruit  trees. 

Sometimes  we  spend  the  day  on  the  Grandfather 
Mountain  and  such  days  cannot  come  too  often. 
Sometimes  we  walk  over  the  gap  under  Hanging 
Rock,  or  we  cross  over  to  Banner  Elk,  or  go  down  to 
Linvllle,  and  wherever  we  walk  the  air  stimulates  like 
wine  and  the  wayside  Is  abloom  with  summer  flowers, 
among  them  goldenrods  and  asters  for  memories  of 
life  in  the  North,  and  the  hillsides  are  solid  masses  of 
white  bloom,  or  they  are  yellow  or  pink  with  flowers, 
—  but  the  slopes  along  the  northern  bank  of  the 
Watauga  River  are  distinct  in  your  mind  from  every- 
thing else.  In  the  late  summer  they  may  be  a  mere 
tangle  of  flowers  and  plumy  grasses,  but  did  you  not 
come  along  here  once  and  discover  them  carpeted 


366       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

with  strawberries?  You  could  not  then  walk  over 
them  without  dyeing  your  feet  in  the  juice  of  the 
ripe  fruit.  Above  the  strawberries  red-clover  was 
thickly  blooming,  and  above  the  clover  ox-eye 
daisies.  The  odor  of  this  field  was  perceptible  before 
you  otherwise  noticed  it  —  a  chorus  of  sw^eet  smells 
seemed  shouting  to  you  to  come  up.  As  soon  as  the 
land  is  left  untilled  about  here,  wild  strawberries 
rush  in  as  pink  azaleas  do  about  Traumfest.  You 
can  buy  them  for  five  cents  a  gallon,  but  you  will  be 
foolish  to  do  that  when  you  can  stain  your  own 
fingers  with  their  juices,  and  fill  your  tissues  with 
sunshine  and  fresh  air  and  fragrances  out  on  the 
slopes  when  strawberries  are  ripe. 

Shading  our  camp  is  the  remains  of  a  grove,  for 
most  of  the  trees  lie  on  the  ground,  bleached  skele- 
tons, which,  however,  prove  to  be  a  blessing  rather 
than  a  misfortune  for  us.  For  towards  night  the  air 
grows  cold  —  and  then  comes  the  crowning  pleasure 
of  the  day:  a  royal  camp-fire  suddenly  blazes  forth. 

We  have  a  perfect  firemaker  in  the  mountain  man 
who  lives  in  the  canvas-covered  wagon  that  brought 
us  here,  bag  and  baggage.  Every  mountain  man  is 
a  perfect  firemaker,  though  he  is  by  no  means  a  fire 
worshiper.  He  makes  his  fire  for  homely  uses,  not 
for  any  spiritual  cause  such  as  we  imagine  kindled 
those  fires  of  early  man  in  the  Far  East,  fires  that  yet 
burn  in  poetry  to  warm  the  heart  even  at  this  dis- 
tant time.  The  mountain  man  always  starts  his  fire 
with  a  stick  whittled  into  a  brush.  He  scorns  paper 
even  when  he  can  get  it,  seeming  to  whittle  into  his 


THE  GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN     367 

brush  a  sort  of  magic,  for  try  as  you  will  you  cannot 
whittle  a  brush  that  will  burn  like  his.  It  never  fails, 
and  he  uses  only  one  match.  Our  back-log  is  the 
trunk  of  an  ash  tree  seasoned  to  perfection.  Against 
this  is  laid  various  kinds  of  wood,  each  kind  giving 
forth  its  own  flames  and  its  own  sparks ;  for  trees  do 
not  all  burn  alike.  The  oak,  for  instance,  expresses 
itself  as  distinctly  in  its  flames  as  in  its  leaves  and 
fruit,  or  in  its  voice  in  the  wind,  or  its  color  or  the 
odors  it  sends  forth.  Even  the  diflferent  species  of 
oak  burn  differently.  One  can  sit  in  reverie  before 
the  calm  blaze  of  a  white-oak  fire,  but  your  Spanish 
oak  explodes  and  sputters  and  shoots  out  sparks 
in  a  way  to  induce  anything  but  reverie.  Hickory 
burns  with  a  steadfast  glow,  but  the  unstable  chest- 
nut pops  and  sputters  worse,  if  anything,  than 
Spanish  oak.  Your  firemaker  says  it  is  linwood  that 
sends  out  those  fascinating  broods  of  fiery  dragons 
that  leap  with  lashing  tails  high  into  the  air. 

There  are  some  things  one  would  like  to  know 
about  trees.  One  would  like  to  know  from  the  flames 
what  tree  is  burning,  how  old  it  is,  and  what  have 
been  its  experiences  in  life,  as  well  as  how  to  tell,  by 
the  sound  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves,  beneath 
what  tree  one  is  passing,  and  by  the  smell  of  the 
opening  buds  as  you  go  along  what  trees  are  about 
you. 

As  we  lie  on  the  fragrant  earth  watching  the  flames 
and  the  fiery  serpents  ascend  into  the  black  vault 
above,  this  seems  to  us  no  common  fire,  but  rather 
the  sudden  rush  into  elemental  freedom  of  those 


368       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS, 

patient  giants  of  the  forest  that  have  lain  here  wait- 
ing for  us  to  come  and  free  them. 

Sometimes  a  bat  flies  across  the  fire,  and  one  night 
a  dark  toad  was  discovered  sitting  close  to  your  ear. 
But  he  had  nothing  important  to  say.  He  sat  still 
for  a  while,  his  eyes  glistening  in  the  firelight  that 
seemed  to  fascinate  him.  Then  he  attempted  to 
enter  the  heaven  thus  suddenly  opened  to  his  imag- 
ination. In  pursuit  of  his  dream  he  went  straight 
into  the  fire.  What  he  expected  to  find,  who  can 
say.'*  And  what  a  disillusionment  it  must  have  been 
when  he  found  himself  sitting  on  a  red-hot  fagot !  He 
made  a  quick  backward  movement,  to  be  swept 
into  safety  by  a  merciful  human  hand.  If  a  toad  had 
the  wings  of  a  moth,  it  would  doubtless  fly  into  the 
fire  in  the  same  way.  A  toad  followed  a  lantern  a 
long  distance  one  night.  It  is  impossible  not  to  like 
the  toad  when  you  once  really  know  it.  Besides  its 
friendly  manners  it  has  the  most  beautiful  eyes  in 
the  world.  Those  eyes  so  soft  and  bright  betoken  a 
good  heart.  What  is  the  old  fable  of  the  toad  wear- 
ing a  jewel  in  its  head?  The  truth  of  that  is,  the  toad 
wears  two  jewels,  and  they  are  its  lovely  golden- 
brown  eyes. 

As  the  fire  dies  down,talking  ceases,  the  black  trees 
come  out  more  plainly,  and  the  head  of  the  Grand- 
father wears  a  crown  of  stars  where  great  Scorpio 
lies  along  the  sky. 

If  you  chance  to  waken  in  the  night,  out  through 
the  triangular  space  between  the  open  tent-flaps 
you  see  the  slopes  of  the  Grandfather  bathed  in 


THE  GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN      369 

moonlight,  or  dimly  looming  in  the  faint  light  of  the 
stars,  or  shrouded  in  white  mists  like  a  ghost.  One 
sleeps  soundly  in  the  keen,  thin  air  and  at  daybreak 
wakens,  not  slowly  but  all  at  once  with  a  sense  of 
buoyancy  in  every  member.  How  the  cold  spring 
water  stings  the  skin  and  makes  it  glow  suddenly 
hot!  And  as  we  step  out  of  doors  we  see  the  moun- 
tain emerging  from  its  robe  of  white  mists,  its  colors 
fresh  and  fine  as  though  it,  too,  had  slept  well. 

Of  tencr  than  anywhere  else  we  go  up  on  the  moun- 
tain. One  can  easily,  by  jumping  from  stone  to  stone, 
cross  the  Watauga's  pretty  rippling  water,  where 
the  trout  hide.  Some  of  our  little  party  may  stop  to 
fish,  and  that  is  good  for  those  of  us  who  come  home 
hungry  at  night  —  and  how  hungry  we  do  come 
home !  —  but  the  Watauga  has  better  uses  than  fish- 
ing, an  occupation  apt  to  absorb  one's  attention  too 
closely,  withdrawing  it  from  matters  more  import- 
ant than  trout.  There  is  a  matter  of  real  interest, 
however,  connected  with  fishing  in  this  region.  For 
it  was  either  here  or  in  the  Linville  that  we  saw  the 
sacred  piscatorial  art  pursued  with  woolen  mittens 
instead  of  rod  and  fly.  Thus  equipped  you  wade  in 
and  grab  the  fish  where  they  lie  in  the  clear  pools. 

The  path  beyond  the  river  is  cut  through  the  dense 
kalmia  and  Rhododendron  maximum  that  make  a 
w^de  band  along  the  base  of  the  mountain,  then  it 
leads  up  and  up  and  up  through  the  more  open 
forest.  There  is  no  sweeter  walk  in  the  world  than 
that  up  Grandfather  Mountain,  where  the  path 
winds  among  the  trees,  a  canopy  of  leaves  screening 


370       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

the  sky,  the  forest  shutting  from  view  the  outer 
world.  Once,  there  were  large  wild  cherry  trees  on 
the  slopes  of  the  Grandfather,  but  the  wood  being 
valuable,  —  it  is  what  the  people  call  mahogany,  — 
there  are  only  saplings  left,  and  a  few  patriarchs 
that,  though  useless  for  lumber,  give  an  air  of  dignity 
to  the  forest  in  company  with  the  clear  gray  shafts 
of  the  tulip-trees,  the  grand  old  chestnuts,  the  oaks, 
the  maples,  beeches,  birches,  ashes,  and  lindens  that 
mingle  their  foliage  ^with  that  of  the  pines  and 
spruces. 

You  pass  beside  or  under  large  detached  boulders 
covered  with  saxifrages,  sedums,  mosses,  and  ferns, 
and  in  whose  crevices  mountain-ash  trees  and 
twisted  hemlocks  have  taken  root  as  though  for  pur- 
poses of  decoration;  and  in  the  damp  hollows  away 
from  the  path  great  jack- vines  hang  from  the  tree- 
tops.  The  rock  ledges  sometimes  make  caves  where 
bears  were  wont  to  live,  for  the  Grandfather  was 
once  a  famous  place  for  bears.  Squirrels  still  "use 
on  the  mountain, ' '  as  the  people  say,  and  a ' '  boomer ' ' 
will  be  apt  to  bark  down  at  you  as  you  go  along. 
You  hear  the  waters  of  a  stream  in  the  ravine  below, 
and  here  and  there  you  cross  a  natural  garden  of 
"balimony"  or  some  other  precious  herb  that  the 
people  gather  in  the  season.  About  two  thirds  of  the 
way  up  you  take  a  path  that  branches  off  to  the  left 
and  leads  you  over  the  mossy  rocks  to  an  open  place 
on  the  edge  of  a  gorge  where  looking  off  you  see  the 
clear-cut  profile  of  the  Grandfather  sculptured  on  the 
edge  of  a  rocky  bluff,  the  bushy  hair  that  rises  from 


THE    GRANDFATHER    PROFILE 


THE   GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN      371 

the  forehead  consisting  of  fir  trees  that  when  whit- 
ened by  the  winter  snow  give  a  venerable  appear- 
ance to  the  stone  face.  Somewhat  above  this  profile 
from  this  point  is  also  visible  another,  with  smaller 
and  rounder  features,  which  of  course  is  the  Grand- 
mother. 

Returning  to  the  main  path  and  continuing  the 
ascent,  the  way  grows  wilder  and  if  possible  sweeter. 
One  has  a  sense  of  rising  spiritually  as  well  as  phys- 
ically. At  the  base  of  a  high  cliff,  framed  in  foliage 
and  crowned  with  the  rosy-flowered  Rhododendron 
Cataivbiense,  gushes  out  the  famous  Grandfather 
Spring  that  is  only  ten  degrees  above  freezing 
throughout  the  summer.  Up  to  this  point  there  is  a 
bridle  path ;  beyond  here  it  is  necessary  to  walk.  The 
rose-bay  still  in  bloom  clings  to  the  rocks,  in  whose 
crevices  little  dwarf  trees  have  taken  root  along  with 
the  mosses,  ferns,  and  saxifrages. 

The  path  gets  very  steep  and  rocky.  You  are  now 
among  the  balsam  firs,  those  trees  to  name  which  is 
to  name  a  perfume,  and  you  go  climbing  up  over 
their  strong  red  roots.  The  pathway  becomes  a 
staircase  winding  about  moss-trimmed  rocks  in 
whose  crevices  are  tiny  contorted  balsams  like  Japan- 
ese flower-pot  trees.  Enormous  coal-black  lichens 
hang  from  the  cliffs  and  the  ground  is  softly  carpeted 
with  mossy  growths  and  oxalis,  out  from  whose 
pretty  pale  leaves  look  myriads  of  pink-and-white 
blossoms.  Long  after  the  Rhododefidron  Cataicbiense 
is  done  blooming  below,  one  finds  it  in  its  prime  on 
the  high  peaks  of  the  Grandfather. 


372       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

Up  among  the  balsam  firs  and  about  the  rocks 
grow  large  sour  gooseberries  and  enormous  sweet 
huckleberries,  and  it  was  here  we  found  a  new  and 
delicious  fruit.  The  bushes  crowding  the  woods  in 
places  were  loaded  with  bright  red  globes  the  size  of 
a  small  cherry,  each  dangling  from  a  slender  stem. 
These  delightful  berries  were  mere  skins  of  juice, 
tiny  wine-bottles  full  of  refreshment  for  a  summer 
day.  The  natives  were  afraid  to  eat  them,  but  hav- 
ing decided  that  they  were  cousins  to  the  huckle- 
berries, we  ventured,  and  added  these  jocund  fruits 
to  the  many  attractions  that  called  us  again  and 
again  to  the  top  of  the  Grandfather.  One  wishes  it 
could  truthfully  be  said  that  these  berries  grow  only 
on  the  Grandfather  Mountain,  but  the  fact  is  we 
discovered  them  on  other  mountains,  though  never 
much  below  an  altitude  of  six  thousand  feet.  Finding 
them  thus  among  the  mossy  rocks  up  in  the  sweet, 
keen  air  on  the  summit  of  our  favorite  mountain 
gave  them  a  charm  that  was  enhanced  by  the  fact 
that  they  belonged  to  us  and  the  birds.  Now  we 
shall  have  to  share  them  wuth  every  passer-by,  for 
when  we  ate  and  survived,  our  mountain  friends 
ventured  to  partake,  and  doubtless  they  will  spread 
the  news  that  you  can  eat  with  impunity  the  juicy 
red  berries  on  top  of  Grandfather  Mountain.  One 
woman  even  took  home  a  pailful  and  made  from 
them  the  most  exquisite  jelly  imaginable,  ruby-red, 
clear,  sparkling,  and  with  a  delicate  wild-flower 
flavor  that  made  one  think  of  the  sweet  things 
growing  on   the  mountain-top.    We  named   them 


THE   GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN      373 

"Our  Berries,"  and  with  them  quenched  our  thirst 
instead  of  carrying  water  when  we  went  above  the 
spring. 

Up  through  the  spruces  and  the  balsams  you 
mount  in  the  resplendent  day,  lingering  at  every 
step.  The  trees  below  you  are  sending  up  songs  as 
the  wind  sweeps  over  them,  the  balsams  about  and 
below  you  are  pouring  a  vast  cloud  of  fragrance  into 
the  blue  bowl  of  the  sky,  and  you  yourself  someway 
seem  to  be  a  part  of  the  general  rapture. 

Thus  climbing  up  through  the  wonderful  day, 
you  reach  the  summit,  "Calloway's  High  Peak," 
the  highest  point  on  the  mountain,  but  from  which 
one  cannot  command  the  circle  of  the  horizon.  It  is 
necessary  to  get  the  view  from  two  points,  which  is 
all  the  better.  The  rocks  at  the  lookout  towards  the 
south  being  covered  with  "  heather,"  one  can  lie  on  a 
delightful  couch  studded  all  over  with  little  white 
starry  flowers,  to  rest  and  receive  the  view.  Lying 
thus  on  the  earth,  warmed  by  the  sun  and  cooled  by 
the  fragrant  breeze,  one  looks  over  a  sea  of  blue 
mountains  that  breaks  against  a  bluer  sky.  Out  of 
the  sea  of  mountains  rises  many  a  well-known  form, 
among  them  the  big  beech  with  its  memories  of 
lovely  pastures  and  groves  of  beech  trees,  for  it  is 
needless  to  say  that  a  mountain  of  beeches  is  a  sort  of 
enchanted  place.  In  the  distance  lies  White  Top  on 
whose  summit  three  states  meet,  a  heaven  for  the 
moonshiner,  one  should  think,  if  he  is  able  to  take 
advantage  of  the  situation. 

Leaving  this  place  and  walking  on  to  the  point 


374       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

that  looks  to  the  south,  one  shares  the  feelings  and 
almost  the  faith  of  Michaux.  The  view  is  very  im- 
pressive, because  of  that  steep  descent  of  the  moun- 
tain into  the  foothills,  the  long  spurs  sweeping  down 
in  fine  lines  to  a  great  depth.  Above  them  one  looks 
off  over  scores  of  noble  forms  overlapping  and  blend- 
ing in  the  hazy  distance.  The  Black  Mountains 
stand  forth  very  high  and  very  blue,  and  beyond 
them,  among  the  many  familiar  forms,  are  distin- 
guished what  one  supposes  to  be  the  faint  blue  line 
of  the  Smokies  —  or  is  it  the  nearer  Balsams? 

The  greater  mass  of  the  Grandfather  lies  on  the 
south  side,  where  those  long  buttresses  sweep  down 
into  the  valleys  of  the  Piedmont  region,  glorious 
ridges  with  broad  bald  shoulders  where  cattle  pas- 
ture and  rhododendrons,  laurel,  and  azaleas  stand 
in  regal  beauty.  Between  the  long  spurs,  as  well  as 
between  the  many  smaller  ridges,  glance  rivulets 
that  finally  become  the  John's  River,  whose  valley 
one  sees  from  Blowing  Rock  winding  so  prettily 
between  the  foothills. 

Sooner  or  later  you  will  find  your  way  to  McRae's, 
which  is  to  the  south  side  of  the  Grandfather  what 
Calloway's  is  to  the  north  side,  a  farmhouse  where 
one  can  stay  awhile.  There  is  a  trail  over  the  end  of 
the  Grandfather  by  which  you  can  go  directly  from 
Calloway's  to  McRae's,  but  to  strike  this  trail  you 
have  to  walk  down  the  Linville  River,  which,  rising 
in  an  open  space  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the  head 
of  the  Watauga,  flows  in  quite  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, and  through  so  narrow  a  pass  that  you  have  to 


THE   GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN      375 

keep  crossing  and  rccrossing  it,  no  small  matter  in  a 
season  of  rains.  For  there  are  no  foot-logs  at  all. 
Evidently  you  are  not  expected  to  walk  along  this 
road,  and  if  you  do  you  must  cross  the  river, 
jumping  from  rock  to  rock  as  best  you  can.  But 
the  Linville  is  one  of  the  streams  you  are  glad 
to  know  through  all  its  sparkling  length,  from 
the  spring  behind  the  Grandfather  to  where  it 
escapes  in  wild  glee  through  the  gorge  below  the 
falls. 

There  are  peacocks  at  McRae's,  and  Mr.  McRae 
has  not  forgotten  how  to  play  on  the  bagpipes  those 
ancient  airs  that  have  so  stirred  the  blood  of  his  race. 
One  of  the  pleasant  memories  of  this  side  of  the 
Grandfather  is  Mr.  McRae  walking  up  and  down 
before  the  house  playing  the  pipes.  But  you  will 
have  to  coax  him  to  do  it. 

McRae's  stands  on  the  Yonahlossee  Road  that 
connects  Linville,  just  below  the  mountain,  with 
Blowing  Rock,  —  Yonahlossee,  trail  of  the  bear,  — 
but  one  need  fear  no  bear  on  the  Yonahlossee  Road 
to-day.  From  McRae's  there  is  a  path  up  the  Grand- 
father, not  to  Calloway's  High  Peak,  but  to  another 
peak  reached  by  a  very  sweet  climb  through  the 
balsams,  which,  in  all  this  region,  are  smaller  and 
more  companionable  than  the  straight  giants  of  the 
Black  Mountains,  these  of  the  Grandfather  being 
twisted  and  friendly  and  profoundly  fragrant.  From 
this  peak  one  can  see  in  all  directions,  excepting 
where  one  of  the  Grandfather's  black  summits 
obstructs  the  view. 


376       THE   CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

It  is  the  lichens  growing  on  the  rocks  that  give  so 
sombre  an  appearance  to  the  top  of  the  Grandfather, 
those  big,  black  lichens  with  loose  and  curled -up 
edges.  Grandfather's  black,  rocky  top  is  eight  miles 
long,  and  once  Mr.  Calloway  and  our  friend  the  post- 
master —  he  who  brought  us  our  mail,  walking  four 
miles  every  day  for  the  pleasure  of  doing  a  kindness — 
and  the  men  of  the  camping  party  blazed  out  a  rude 
trail  so  that  we  could  all  take  that  wonderful  knife- 
edge  walk  up  in  the  sky  over  the  peaks  of  the  Grand- 
father; Indian  ladders  —  that  is,  a  tall  tree  trunk 
from  which  the  branches  have  been  lopped,  leaving 
protruding  ends  for  steps  —  helping  us  up  otherwise 
insurmountable  cliffs.  It  was  the  great  event  of  the 
season,  a  very  wonderful  walk,  and  one  seldom  taken 
by  anybody. 

The  Yonahlossee  Road  ought  to  be  followed  early 
in  the  summer.  For  then  the  meadowy  tops  of  the 
long  spurs  are  like  noble  parks  created  for  man's 
pleasure.  The  Rhododendron  Catawhiense  lies  massed 
about  in  effective  groups  and  covered  with  rosy 
bloom,  beyond  which  one  looks  out  over  a  wide 
landscape  of  mountains  and  clouds.  From  these 
open,  flower-decked  spaces  the  road  passes  into  the 
shadowy  forest,  to  emerge  upon  a  bushy  slope  where 
blazing  reaches  of  flame-colored  azaleas  astound 
your  senses.  There  are  other  flowers  along  the  way, 
but  you  scarcely  see  them,  intoxicated  as  you  are 
with  the  glory  of  the  rhododendrons,  and  after  them 
the  azaleas,  for  these  marvelous  growths  almost 
never  blossom  within  sight  of  each  other.  You  would 


THE    YONAIILOSSEE    ROAD 


THE  GRANDFATHER   MOUNTAIN      377 

say  they  know,  like  ladies  at  a  ball,  how  Important  it 
is  to  avoid  each  other's  colors. 

Under  the  trees  along  the  roadside  the  earth  is 
covered  with  a  superb  carpet  of  large  and  handsome 
galax  leaves,  for  the  Grandfather  is  distinguished 
by  the  great  beauty  and  abundance  of  its  galax. 
Laurel,  too,  claims  standing-room  on  the  side  of  the 
grand  old  mountain,  and  here  as  elsewhere  one  no- 
tices the  apparent  capriciousness  of  the  laurel,  which 
forms  an  impenetrable  jungle  for  long  stretches 
and  then  stops  short,  not  a  laurel  bush  to  be  seen  for 
some  distance,  when  with  equal  suddenness  it  ap- 
pears again. 

The  splendid  slopes  of  the  Grandfather  are  en- 
chanting also  when  autumn  colors  them,  —  deep 
red  huckleberry  balds,  trees  wreathed  in  crimson 
woodbine,  vivid  sassafras,  tall  gold  and  crimson  and 
scarlet  forest  trees  —  it  seems  more  like  the  brilliant 
display  of  a  Northern  forest.  You  would  say  the 
outpouring  of  fragrance  must  pass  with  the  summer. 
Not  so.  As  you  walk  among  the  trees  in  their  thin, 
bright  attire  you  have  a  feeling  of  their  friendliness. 
The  forest,  as  It  were,  breathes  upon  you,  you  are 
drowned  in  the  sweetness  of  resinous  perfumes  that 
distil  from  a  thousand  pines,  firs,  and  hemlocks. 
When  the  leaves  of  the  trees  are  growing  scarce  and 
changing  to  duller  hues,  Into  the  open  spaces  witch- 
hazel  weaves  its  gold-wreathed  wands  and  brightens 
the  woods  like  sunshine. 

Turning  to  the  right  from  the  Yonahlosscc  Road, 
a  short  distance  up  from  McRae's,  you  walk  along 


378       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

under  the  chestnut  trees  just  beginning  to  open 
their  burrs,  away  from  the  Grandfather  out  over  a 
beautiful  spur  that  ends  in  an  open,  rounded  sum- 
mit. The  road  to  this  place  has  side  paths  that  lead 
you  to  high  cliffs,  whence  you  look  off  towards 
Blowing  Rock,  and  where  the  sweetest  of  mountain 
growths  cling  to  the  crevices  and  drape  the  edges 
of  all  the  rocks.  For  some  reason  the  trees  here  are 
small,  the  chestnuts  being  not  much  larger  than 
bushes,  but  the  nuts  are  proportionately  large,  the 
largest  nuts  one  ever  saw  on  our  native  chestnut 
trees,  and  they  are  peculiarly  sweet,  again  a  hint  to 
the  fruit-makers  who  from  this  could  doubtless 
create  a  nut  as  large  as  the  chestnuts  of  France  and 
as  sweet  as  those  of  America.  The  summit  of  this 
little  mountain  of  the  large  chestnuts  is  one  of  your 
favorite  places  to  go  for  a  day  of  rest  and  contempla- 
tion. It  is  a  lovely,  soothing  place,  as  it  ought  to  be, 
for  it  is  the  Grandmother  Mountain. 


XXXIV 

THE   HOLIDAY   OF   DREAMS 

BACK  to  Traumfcst  one  comes,  after  each  expe- 
dition out  over  the  mountains.  And  one  day 
the  truth  dawns  upon  you,  —  the  title  so  arbitrarily 
bestowed  upon  Traumfest  belongs  to  the  whole 
region.  Yes,  this  whole  stretch  of  enchanting  and 
enchanted  mountains  is  the  "Holiday  of  Dreams." 
And  thinking  back  over  those  days  of  happy  wan- 
dering, how  many  interesting  places  appear  before 
the  mind's  eye  that  have  not  been  so  much  as  men- 
tioned in  this  book;  how  many  lovely  scenes  have 
been  witnessed,  how  many  pleasant  adventures 
encountered  that  have  not  been  recorded,  how  many 
flowers  have  blossomed  without  mention,  how  many 
birds  have  sung  unchronicled,  how  many  quaint 
native  phrases  have  been  passed  over  in  silence! 

And  as  the  years  have  slipped  by,  with  what  pangs 
of  regret  one  has  watched  the  passing  of  the  primi- 
tive life  of  the  mountains,  and  with  what  pleasure 
one  reverts  to  those  old  days  when  e\'erybody  was 
uncomfortable  and  everybody  happy.  How  many 
to-day,  seeing  the  train  with  its  line  of  Pullman 
sleepers  come  in  on  time  at  Traumfest,  remember 
those  days  when  the  track  went  only  as  far  as  Hen- 
dersonville,  and  when,  with  the  old-time  courtesy  of 
the  Southern  man,  the  conductor  politely  stopped 


38o       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

his  two  cars  on  request  of  any  lady  passenger  who 
wished  to  gather  a  few  wild  flowers,  willing  to  please 
so  long  as  he  could  get  in  before  dark. 

Since  then,  like  a  cosmic  spider,  the  Southern 
Railroad  has  woven  its  meshes  below  the  Carolina 
mountains  on  either  side,  and  thrown  its  steel  threads 
across  them  in  several  places,  while  now  yet  another 
line  is  being  surveyed  across  the  Blue  Ridge  to  the 
north  of  Tryon  Mountain,  up  the  Broad  River 
Valley,  past  Chimney  Rock,  and  on  as  far  as  Bat 
Cave  where  it  follows  a  devious  route  of  escape  by 
way  of  the  Pigeon  River  Gorge.  The  Blue  Ridge 
that  looks  so  ethereal  in  the  distance  presents  almost 
insuperable  obstacles  to  the  civil  engineer,  as  do  also 
the  guarding  ramparts  of  the  valleys  of  the  plateau, 
but  the  great  transcontinental  line,  that  is  to  reach 
from  the  Atlantic  coast  of  North  Carolina  to  Seattle 
on  the  Pacific,  will  doubtless  find  a  way. 

Occasionally  one  sees  an  old-fashioned,  boat- 
shaped  wagon  covered  with  a  canopy  of  white  cloth,  a 
survivor  of  those  trains  that  crossed  from  Tennessee 
to  the  Carolinas  over  the  hard-won  roads  where  no 
longer  move  trains  of  wagons,  droves  of  cattle,  hogs, 
and  sheep,  all  these  now  passing  over  another  form 
of  highway  behind  the  iron  horse  that  pulls  the  con- 
tents of  a  hundred  caravans  in  one  load. 

And  what  means  that  sudden  appearance  of  two 
dozen  automobiles  on  Traumfest's  modest  "Trade 
Street"  the  other  day?  Two  or  three  of  these  won- 
ders of  the  age  belong  to  people  living  here,  and  those 
others  came  on  a  mission,  which  was,  to  further  their 


THE   HOLIDAY   OF   DREAMS        381 

own  interests  by  making  plans  for  the  extension  of 
the  road  that  brought  them  here.  They  came  up 
from  Spartanburg,  a  sign  of  the  new  era  that  has 
dawned  to  transform  the  mountains.  For  already 
from  Spartanburg  there  comes  a  wide,  new  road,  a 
great  red  serpent  whose  head  is  pointed  up  the  Paco- 
let  Valley,  and  that  will  never  stop  until  it  has  coiled 
and  writhed  its  way  over  the  helpless  rampart  of  the 
Blue  Ridge  to  its  goal  —  in  Asheville?  No,  not  in 
Asheville,  but  through  it  and  on  and  down  out  into 
the  now  teeming  Western  world  beyond.  The  auto- 
mobile, which  is  doing  for  this  country  what  the 
military  power  has  so  long  been  doing  for  Europe, 
networking  it  with  perfect  roads,  will  soon  speed 
from  Jacksonville,  Florida,  across  the  plains,  the 
foothills,  and  the  astonished  mountains,  down  to 
Knoxville,  Tennessee,  over  the  broad  highway  now 
being  constructed  for  that  purpose. 

Wherever  you  go  the  portable  sawmill  is  ahead  of 
you,  the  temporary  railway  of  the  lumberman  dis- 
dainfully penetrating  the  ''inaccessible"  places. 
And  wherever  you  go  the  people  of  the  mountains 
are  waking  up  out  of  the  care-free,  simple  life  of  the 
past  into  the  wearing,  tumultuous  life  of  the  present, 
and  that  is  what  causes  those  pangs  of  regret.  The 
comforts  that  are  pouring  in  are  not  in  themselves 
regrettable;  it  is  only  the  price  one  has  to  pay  for 
them,  the  exchange  of  Arcadia  for  Gotham. 

Social  transitions  are  always  trying,  and  perhaps 
peculiarly  so  here,  where  the  awakening  conscious- 
ness suddenly  sees  the  glitter  of  the  prize  without 


382       THE  CAROLINA   MOUNTAINS 

understanding  the  law  of  exchange.  But  the  people 
are  sound.  To  native  intelligence  they  add  a  rude 
but  strong  sense  of  honor  and  of  justice  which  with 
the  passing  of  time  will  undoubtedly  mould  them 
happily  into  the  new  conditions. 

The  world  is  coming ;  the  old-time  mountaineer  is 
going,  but  he  will  never  be  wholly  metamorphosed 
so  long  as  human  nature  remains  fundamentally 
unchanged  and  the  sun  continues  to  exact  obedience 
to  its  great  command,  "Thou  shalt  not  hurry."  And 
so  long  as  human  nature  remains  as  it  is,  the  new- 
comer will  in  time  have  the  sharp  edge  of  his  "ambi- 
tion" dulled  by  the  same  resistless  force:  "Thou 
shalt  not  hurry"  applies  to  all  alike. 

And  now,  into  the  increasing  turmoil  of  many 
interests  there  comes  like  an  emblem  of  peace  the 
great  Appalachian  Park,  that,  lying  in  calm  expanse 
over  the  slopes  of  the  Blue  Ridge  and  the  Smoky 
Mountains,  shall  save  forever  for  the  happiness  of 
the  people  a  part  of  this  glorious  wilderness.  With 
the  park  will  come  a  new  world  to  the  mountains. 
Not  only  will  railroads  and  highways  open  up  all 
parts  of  the  country,  but  an  increasing  number  of 
those  people  who  need  to  rest  or  to  play  will  find 
their  way  here,  and  build  themselves  homes.  Sum- 
mer homes  for  the  Southerner,  winter  homes  for  the 
Northerner,  all-the-year-round  homes  for  many 
from  both  sections  are  already  growing  up  in  the 
laurel  thickets  and  under  the  trees, 

Those  who  desire  an  estate  in  the  forest  primeval 
can  no  longer,  it  is  true,  buy  a  whole  mountain  cov- 


THE   HOLIDAY   OF   DREAMS        383 

ered  with  virgin  forest  for  a  few  cents  an  acre,  as  was 
the  case  not  so  long  ago,  when  "inaccessible"  locali- 
ties were  looked  upon  as  encumbered  rather  than 
benefited  by  their  burden  of  big  trees.  But  whoever 
wants  a  mountain-side,  with  a  laurel-bordered 
stream  and  a  wide  view  of  enchanting  heights,  can 
have  it,  and  if  all  the  forest  is  no  longer  primeval  it  is 
nevertheless  charming.  The  half-grown  trees  and 
the  saplings,  with  the  few  large  trees  that  generally 
manage  to  escape  destruction,  afford  a  starting- 
point  for  the  creation  of  delightful  landscape  effects. 
And  although  the  mountains  have  no  great  agri- 
cultural value,  frequent  statements  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding,  they  are  capable  of  responding 
cordially  to  him  who,  desiring  a  garden,  a  fruit 
orchard,  or  a  vineyard,  goes  about  it  in  the  right 
way.  New  methods  will  doubtless  increase  the 
bearing  capacity  of  the  earth,  but  when  all  is  said 
neither  soil  nor  climate  is  as  well  suited  to  the  pro- 
duction of  food  crops  for  man's  needs  as  they  are  for 
the  production  of  laurel  and  azaleas  for  his  pleasure. 
Where  the  mountains  stand  supreme  is  in  their 
gracious  climate  that  seems  to  caress  the  world- 
weary;  in  that  and  in  the  subtler  beauties  of  nature 
that  everywhere  cover  them  as  with  a  garment.  The 
chance  to  build  a  castle  out  of  fancies  and  a  few  firmer 
materials,  to  snare  the  vagrant  fragrances  that  float 
free,  to  fix  the  rose-bay  on  the  cliff,  to  clear  a  vista 
to  the  heavenly  heights,  moves  the  desire  of  e\-ery 
lover  of  beauty  w^ho  comes  here  sighing  for  release 
from  the  bondage  of  icy  winds  or  city  con\entions. 


384       THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

Nor  Is  a  lordly  mansion  full  of  cares  the  proper  hous- 
ing for  this  country.  Far  better  for  those  who  seek 
their  freedom  is  the  restfully-proportioned  "bunga- 
low," with  spreading  roof  and  broad  porches,  appro- 
priate to  the  climate  and  harmonious  in  the  land- 
scape, and  which  is  now  growing  so  greatly  in  favor. 
The  world  may  be  coming,  but  the  colors  and  the 
fragrances,  the  wonderful  air  and  the  ardent  sun 
remain  the  same,  and  ever  will.  The  change  that  is 
going  on  may  have  its  trials,  but  one  has  only  to 
project  the  imagination  far  enough  into  the  future 
to  see  these  heights  transformed  from  glorious  wild- 
ness  into  glorious  order.  One  looks  ahead  with 
undaunted  courage  to  the  time  when  both  visitor 
and  native  will  enjoy  without  destroying  the 
charming  efforts  of  nature;  to  the  time  when  man 
will  —  to  adapt  Emerson  —  name  the  birds  without 
a  gun,  love  the  wild  rose  and  leave  it  on  its  stalk; 
to  the  time  when,  undisturbed,  the  arbutus  will  again 
carpet  the  woods  close  to  the  houses,  and  the  flaming 
azaleas  cover  the  slopes,  pressing  down  as  they  once 
did  against  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  as  you  drove 
along  the  more  frequented  roads.  For  Nature  is 
long-suffering  and  very  kind,  so  kind,  indeed,  that 
in  moments  of  discouragement  one  has  only  to  re- 
member that  even  if  the  worst  were  to  happen,  and 
these  beautiful  mountains  become  devastated  by 
ignorant  invaders,  when  the  time  came,  as  come 
it  would,  that  the  profaner  departed,  Nature  would 
begin  anew  her  beneficent  task  of  creating  beauty. 
These  mountains,  with  their  tremendous  fecundity 


THE   HOLIDAY  OF   DREAMS        385 

and  their  resistless  allies  of  sun  and  rain,  in  half  a 
century  would  erase  all  but  the  ineradicable  signs  of 
the  presence  of  the  destroyer,  presenting  to  some 
future  generation  the  privilege  of  joining  the  beauty 
of  the  wilderness  to  the  graces  of  ci\'ilizcd  life.  For 
the  whole  world  is  now  one  population,  all  knowing 
each  other,  and  it  is  incredible  that  the  work  of  the 
future  will  not  be  in  the  direction  of  abolishing  war, 
misery,  and  ugliness. 

When  the  vitality  of  man  and  the  energy  of  money 
are  freed  from  the  barbaric  waste  of  to-day,  physical 
and  municipal,  as  they  will  be  freed,  and  can  be  di- 
verted into  making  the  earth  beautiful,  then,  if  not 
before,  this  enchanting  region  will  be  transformed 
into  the  paradise  which  is  so  evidently  its  function 
in  the  scheme  of  nature.  For  these  mountains  have 
been  preserved  as  though  on  purpose  for  man's 
pleasure.  Nowhere  else  does  such  variety  of  beauti- 
ful trees  grow  in  natural  forests,  nowhere  else  do 
such  flowers  bloom  in  gardens  of  nature's  planting. 
The  long  line  of  the  Appalachian  Mountains,  the 
oldest  land  in  this  country,  perhaps  in  the  world, 
having  in  its  southern  part  escaped  the  cold  death 
of  the  glacier,  is  probably  the  original  home  whence 
many  of  our  hardwood  trees  have  spread  over  the 
Northern  Hemisphere.  Once  connected  by  land  with 
eastern  Asia,  North  America  shared  the  flora  of  that 
part  of  the  world,  and  when  the  Ice  Age  spread  its 
destroying  mantle  over  the  whole  northern  part  of 
the  earth,  the  plants  of  the  New  World,  — which 
is,  geologically  speaking,   a  ver>'  old  world,  —  re- 


386        THE  CAROLINA  MOUNTAINS 

ceding  before  it,  took  refuge  in  these  mountains 
where  soil  and  climate  were  alike  favorable  to 
their  sustenance.  So  that  here  has  been  preserved 
in  a  great  natural  botanical  garden  and  arboretum 
some  of  the  choicest  growths  of  recent  millenniums, 
growths  which  but  for  these  friendly  heights  would 
have  been  numbered  with  the  long  list  of  forms  of 
beauty  that  doubtless  lived  and  vanished  before 
man  came  upon  the  scene  to  witness  and  enjoy. 

And  here  to-day  it  is  man's  privilege  to  enhance 
the  loveliness  of  the  earth  by  use  of  the  wonderful 
trees  and  flowers  that  grow  spontaneously,  as  well 
as  by  the  introduction  of  the  many  beautiful  forms 
that  recent  years  have  made  accessible  to  us  from 
that  sister  continent  where  the  people  of  the  Celes- 
tial Empire  and  the  Flowery  Kingdom  have  so  long 
made  their  part  of  the  world  enchanting  with  flow- 
ers, foliage,  and  trees;  and  where  they  have  created 
a  form  of  beauty  expressing  the  personality  of  their 
race.  Seeing  the  exquisite  results  obtained  by  them, 
one  imagines  our  own  civilization  expressing  itself 
with  equal  force  and  originality,  and  here  in  the 
Southern  mountains,  with  every  natural  advantage 
to  draw  upon,  evolving  a  form  of  landscape  garden- 
ing sympathetic  to  the  region,  as  beautiful  as  that  of 
any  nation,  and  free  from  those  traditional  conven- 
tions of  ours,  which  introduced  here  would  convert 
a  possible  paradise  into  a  stupid  repetition  of  build- 
ings and  gardens  that  whatever  may  be  their  excuse 
in  other  climates  and  other  regions,  are  utterly  out 
of  place  here. 


THE   HOLIDAY  OF   DREAMS  387 

Already  lovely  homes,  and  grounds  beautifully 
planted  with  the  natural  growths  of  the  mountains, 
testify  to  the  possibilities  of  the  countr>',  and  form, 
let  us  hope,  the  beginning  of  a  vast  domain  of 
beauty,  a  domain  created,  not  by  a  few  great  land- 
holders, but  by  the  many  who  shall  come  to  take 
possession. 

The  Italians  have  a  graceful  way  of  placing  in 
their  village  parks  a  notice  to  the  effect  that  the 
park  is  entrusted  to  the  honor  of  the  people  for  whose 
pleasure  it  was  made,  and  in  the  same  spirit  one  would 
like  to  confide  nature's  great  park  of  the  Southern 
Appalachian  Mountains  to  the  loving  care  of  the 
people.  May  it  be  the  pleasure  of  all  to  assist  the 
charming  efforts  of  nature  and  to  pass  on,  as  a  right- 
ful inheritance  to  future  generations,  an  ever  more 
enchanting  Holiday  of  Dreams. 


THE   END 


INDEX 


Appalachian  Mountains,  6,  io6. 
Appalachian  National  Park,  30, 
31,  32,  382. 

"Bald,"  105,  298,  299. 
Baptists,  130,  131,  219,  220. 
Baskets,  186,  230,  238. 
Bears,  243,  286,  298,  300,  370. 
Bee-gums,  21,  329. 
Birch  still,  330. 
Birds: 

Bluebird,  37. 

Buzzard,  83. 

Cardinal,  or  red-bird,  37,  83. 

Carolina  wren.   See  Wren. 

Catbird,  279. 

Cedar  waxwing,  67. 

Chat,  37. 

Chickadee,  37. 

Creeper,  37. 

Dove,  63. 

Finch,  37. 

Grouse,  152,  292,  293,  294. 

Hermit  thrush,  83. 

Junco,  2)7,  311- 

"Moaning  dove,"  63. 

Nuthatch,  37. 

Owl,  5,  64,  65. 

Peacock,  285,  375. 

Pine  warbler,  2i7- 

Quail,  86,  152. 

Red-bird.    See  Cardinal. 

Robin,  37. 

Song  sparrow,  t,'j. 

Tanager,  37. 

Thrush,  37,  63,  83,  279. 

Titmouse,  37. 


Turkey,  152,  245,  285. 

Veery,  37. 

Whip-poor-will,  5,  64. 

Woodpecker,  37,  346. 

Wood  thrush,  63. 

Wren,  37,  79,  82. 
Bridges,  109,  no,  238,  291,  316, 

318. 
Brooms,  186. 

Canopus,  4. 

Children,  165,  166,  222,  223. 

Chipmunk,  84. 

Christmas,  78,  81. 

Church,   90,   116,   120,   130,   131, 

218,  219,  220. 
Cornfields,  72,  73. 
Coverlets,  194-197. 
Crystals  and  Minerals: 

Agate,  273. 

Amethyst,  266,  271. 

Aquamarine,  270. 

Asbestos,  273. 

Beryl,  270,  271,  318. 

Cape  rubies,  269. 

Chalcedony,  272. 

Chrysoprase,  273. 

Corundum,  265,  266. 

Cyanite,  271,  290,  298. 

Emerald,  266,  267. 

Flexible  sandstone,  273,  348. 

Garnet,  268,  269,  290,  298. 

Graphite,  273. 

Hiddenitc,  270. 

Jasper,  273. 

Kaolin,  273. 

Marble,  273. 


390 


INDEX 


Mica,  270,  271,  325. 
Quartz,  271,  286. 
Quartz  crystals,  271,  272. 
Rare  earths,  273. 
Rhodolite,  268,  269. 
Rock  Crystal,  272. 
Ruby,  266,  268. 
Sapphire,  266. 
Serpentine,  273. 
Soapstone,  273. 
Talc,  273. 
Topaz,  266. 
Tourmaline,  271. 

Deadenings,  24. 
Deer,  152,  243. 
Dyspepsia,  163. 

Episcopalians,  130,  219,  360. 

"Fat  pine,"  16. 

Feuds,  207,  208. 

Fireplaces,  184,  185,  366,  367. 

Fires,  15,  16,  25. 

Flowers,  Fruits,  and  Trees: 

Adder's-tongue,  38. 

Alders,  36,  86,  335.  _ 

Alleghany  thermopsis,  283. 

Anemones,  38. 

Apples,  67,  116,  191,  192,  278, 

297.  313- 
"Apricots,"  68. 
Arbutus,  37. 
Ash  trees,  245,  367,  370. 
Asters,  296. 
Azaleas,  59,  339,  340,  374;  pink, 

39;  flame-colored,  49-56,60, 

251.    265,   354,  376;  white, 

250,  265,  279. 
Balmony,  331. 
Balsam   trees,    240,    298,  299, 

303,  308,  309.  371,  375- 
Beans,  66,  93,  191. 
Bee-balm,  305,  335. 


Beech  19,  71,  94,  245,  307, 
315.  370. 

Benzoin,  46. 

Birch,  19,  370. 

Bird's-foot  violet,  38,  39. 

Blackberry,  43,  358,  363,  364. 

Black-eyed  Susan,  360. 

Black  walnut,  20,  252. 

Blood-root,  38. 

Blue-grass,  289,  299. 

Broom  corn,  186. 

Broom-straw,  186. 

Buckeye,  329. 

Ca"ne  brakes,  80,  313. 

Carolina  pine-sap.  See  Pine- 
sap. 

Cherry,  20,  29,  67,  245,  370. 

Chestnut   trees,    18,  245,  287, 

305.315.  319.  370. 
Chinkapins,  282,  328,  329. 
Clematis,  62,  243,  360. 
Clover,  289,  299,  360,  366. 
Columbine,  41,  265,  300. 
Compositse,  66. 
Corn,  65,  66,  75,  81,  205. 
Cotton,  88,  89. 
Crab  tree,  297. 
Cucumber  tree,  21. 
Currants,  361. 
Daisies,  360,  366. 
Dendriumhuxi}oUum,2$2)i  347. 

373- 
Dogwood,  40,  49,  70,  82. 
Elderberry,  282. 
Elm,  19. 

Evening  primrose,  300. 
Eyebright,  38,  309. 
Ferns,  183,  245,  307,  316,  370. 
Fig,  49,  67. 
Fire-pink,  300. 
Fir  trees.   See  Balsam  trees. 
Flowering  shrub,  47. 
Fringe-tree,  42,  100,  251. 
Galax,  45,  348,  358,  361,  377. 


INDEX 


391 


riCMitian,  72. 

Gcum  jirandijlorum,  335. 

Gingrr,  38. 

Ginsciii;,  257,  258,  340. 

CJokloiirod,  296. 

Gold  trt'f,  360. 

GoosclHTrics,    100,     311,     358, 

361,  37^- 
Grai)c,  62,  67,  68,  69,  279. 
Grass,  9,  92,  zSi),  299,  313. 
"Heather."       6Ve      Dendrium 

btixifoiium. 
Hemlock,  29,  1 16,  237,  245,  250. 
HeiKitica,  38. 
"Herbs,"  331. 
Hickory,  19,  71. 
Holly,  'Si. 
Honeysuckle,  43. 
Horse-brier,  72.  81. 
"  Horse  sugar,  "  47. 
Houstonia,  335. 
Huckleberries,    45,     192,    286, 

347.  372. 
Hydrangea,  358. 
Iris  verna,  38. 
Judas-tree,  40. 
Jack-oak,  81. 
Jack-vine,  249,  370. 
Kalmia  latifolia.    See  Laurel. 
Laurel,  49,  54,  55,  56,  59,  60, 

240,  251,  305,  339,  355. 
Lcucothoe,  44,  183,  339. 
Lichens,  371,  376. 
Lilies,  41,  265,  300,  335,  339. 
Lily-of-the-valley  (wild),  251. 
Linden  tree,  307,  370. 
Liquidambar,  21. 
Locust  tree,  245,  2S7. 
Magnolia,  20,  315. 
Mahogany,  20. 
Maple,  19,  20,  370. 
Ma\'pop,  68. 
Mistletoe,  79. 
Morning  glory,  62,  305. 


Moss,  307,  308. 

Mountain  ash,  335,  370. 

Musliro(jins,  69,  354. 

Oak  trees,   18,  71,  Hi,  94,  245, 

2«7.  319.  3<''7.  370. 
Orchids,  41,  339. 
Oriental  and  nionotypic  plants, 

19,  2r,  22,  42,  44,  45,  46,  47, 
^^  52,  258,  275,  385,  3H6. 
"(Jur  berries,"  373. 
Oxalis,  245,  335,  371. 
Oxydendrum        arboreum.     See 

Sourwood. 
Passion-flower,  63,  68. 
Peach,  I,  2,  4,  67,  96,  192. 
Pennyroyal,  330,  331. 
Pepperidge,  21. 
Persimmon,  62,  76,  77. 
Phlox,  300. 
Pine-sap,  36,  86. 
Pine  tree,  9,  16,  17,  18,  40,  41, 

79,  94. 116,  345. 
Pink,  41. 

Plum,  2,  67,  242,  328. 
Pumpkin,  73,  191. 
"  Ramps,"  259. 
Red-bud,  40,  49. 
Rhododendron,  49,  50,  60,  116, 

236,  240,  251,  284,  307.  311, 

316,  339,  340,  341,  343,  344, 

347.  355.  374- 

Rhododendron  Catatchiense,  57, 
58,  59,  245,  251,  285,  287, 
309, 311,  335,  353.  371 .  376. 

Rhododendron,  early  pink,  39, 

57,  99.  264. 
Rhododendron     maximum,     57, 

58,  59,  242,  },^:^.  36Q. 
Rhododendron  Vascyii,  59. 
Rose,  279. 

Roseba>-.      See     Rhododendron 

Cataii'hiense. 
Rye,  75.  93- 
Sassafras,  46,  70. 


392 


INDEX 


Saxifrage,   41,   265,   311,   335, 

354.  2>70. 

Sedge-grass,  80,  186. 

Sedum,  311,  354,  361,  370. 

Service-tree,  2,  358. 

Shortia  galacifolia,  274,  275, 
276,  339- 

Shrub-yellow-root.  See  Yellow- 
root. 

Silver-bell  tree,  42,  339. 

Smilax,  62. 

Snakeroot,  333. 

Sorghum,  74. 

Sorrel,  356. 

Sour-gum,  21. 

Sourwood,  22,  70,  300,  305,  333, 

339- 
Sparkleberry,  45,  100. 
Spice-bush,  46. 
Spirea,  358. 
Spruce,  29,  335,  370. 
St.  Johnswort,  311. 
Strawberry,  67,  279,  280,  282, 

335.  356,  357.  358,  360,  366. 
Strawberry  shrub  (sweet  bub- 

by),  47- 
Sumac,  71. 
Sweet-fern,  61-265. 
Sweet-gum  tree,  21,  70. 
Symplocos  tinctoria,  47. 
Trillium,  38. 
Trumpet-vine,  62. 
Tulip-tree,   19,  29,  39,  71,  94, 

245,  287,  307,  319,  370. 
Tupelo  tree,  21. 
Turtle-head,  295,  300. 
Umbrella  tree,  21. 
Umbrella  leaf,  44. 
Vetches,  62. 
Vines,  62. 

Violets,  36,  38,  39,  41. 
Watermelons,  67. 
Weeping  willow,  49. 
Wheat,  75,  76,  93. 


White  pine,  116,  345. 

Wild  cherry,  20,  29. 

Wistaria,  44. 

Witch-hazel,  81,  377. 

Woodbine,  62. 

Yellow-root,  42,  339. 
Fords,   241,  242,   282,  283,   317, 

325.  358. 
Forest,  15-35,  245.  246,  307,  308, 

370,  371- 
Fomalhaut,  5. 
Fruits.   See  Flowers. 

Glacial  action,  15,  107. 
Good  Roads  Movement,  152. 
Goodwill  Library,  327. 

Honey,  22,  359. 

Indians,  24,  122,  233-238, 
Indian  mounds,  278,  279. 
Insects,  41,  63,  64,  65,  82. 

Jug-making,  187,  188,  189. 

Lakes.    See  Streams. 
Logging,  319-324. 
Log  house,  184,  185,  190,  258. 
Loom,  183,  193-196,  281,  329. 
Lowlands,  49,  89,  90,  92,  97,  351. 
Lumbering, 25, 29, 30,  33,  34,  319- 
324- 

Maps,  government,  336,  337. 

Methodists,  130,  219. 

"Milk-sick,"  281. 

Mills,  73,  74,  235,  329. 

Minerals.   See  Crystals. 

Molasses,  74. 

Moonshiners,  9,  10,  91,  201-217. 

Mountaineers,  11,  12,  150,  151, 
153,  191;  history  of,  138-147; 
customs  and  character,  161- 
170, i82-20o;language,i7i-8i. 


INDEX 


393 


Mountains: 
IJald,  229. 

Balsam,  104,  248,  249,  296-3CX). 
Beech  Mountain,  355,  361,  373. 
Bis  W-Uow  Bald,  299,  334,  33O. 
Black  Uonie,  303,  309. 
Black,  104,  302-314,  333. 
Blue    RkIkc,   2,   3,  6,   88,    102, 

106,  250,  341,  349,  350,  354, 

380. 
Bullhead  Mountain,  303. 
Cirsar's  Head,  88,  92,  93. 
Calloway's  Ili^h  Peak,  373. 
Cataluchee  Mountain,  300. 
Chimney  Rock  Mountain,  97, 

99,  100. 
Chimney  Top,  253. 
Chunky  Gal,  259. 
Clingman     Dome,     240,    244, 

246. 
Cold  Mountain,  277,  278,  286- 

289,  296. 
Cowee,  104,  232. 
Crahtrce  Bald,  297. 
Craggy  Mountain,  303,  305. 
Devil's  Court-House,  254. 
Elk  Mountain,  126. 
Flat  Top.  356. 
Fork  Mountain,  283. 
Glassy  Mountain,  89,  90,  91. 
Grandfather  Mountain,  58,  59, 

102,349-352,  355,  362,  370- 

378. 
Grandmother   Mountain,  371, 

378. 
Grassy  Ridge  Bald,  334,  336. 
Graybcard.  102,  303. 
Great  Hogback,  264. 
Great    Smokies.     See    Smoky 

Mountains. 
Hanging  Rock,  360,  361. 
Hawksbill,  338,  351. 
Hogback.  6,  9,  53,  89,  93,  113. 
Howard  Knob.  358,  359. 


Hump.  336. 

Junaluska,  299. 

Kin^j's  .Mountain,  7,  12,  96. 

Lickstone  iiald.  2«<).  296. 

Linvillc   Mountain,    338,    341, 

348- 
Melr(jse  .Mount.iin,  55,  210. 
.Mount  (iuyot,  240,  244. 
-Mount  -Mitchell,  31,  103,  306- 

312. 
Nantahala,  103,  105,  253,  258, 

259. 
Newfound.  104,  297. 
Old    Rumbling   Bald,   95,    96, 

97- 
Pinnacle,  102,  303. 
Fisgah,  31,  104,  135,  290,  291, 

293.  29.5.  29'^'. 
Pizen  Cove  Top,  281. 
Plott's  Balsams,  300. 
Pumpkin  Patch  Mountain, 334. 
Rabun  Bald,  253. 
Rat,  The,  135- 
Richland  Balsam,  286. 
Roan  Mountain,  334,  335,  336. 
Rocky  Spur,  9,  51,  53. 
Saluda  Mountains,  93. 
Sam  Knob,  277.  286,  296. 
Satulah,  252. 

Scape  Cat  Ridge,  284,  285. 
Shining   Rock,   277,   284.   285. 

286.^ 
ShortofF,  253. 
Smokies.  29,  103,  104,  105,  232, 

239-247. 
Snake  Den  Mountain,  338. 
Soco  -Mountain,  235. 
Standing  Indian,  102,  259. 
Sugarloaf.  97. 
Sugar  Top,  279.  281. 
Table  Rock,  92,  338.  351. 
Tennessee  Bald,  277. 
Tennessee  R.idge,  277,  290. 
Toxaway  Mountain,  264,  265. 


394 


INDEX 


Tryon  Mountain,   6,   53,    208, 

350,  351- 
Unaka   Mountains,    102,    103, 

105. 

Warrior  Mountain,  53. 
Whiteside  Mountain,  251-256, 

260. 
White  Top,  373. 
Yeates  Knob,  304. 
Yellow  Mountain,  315. 
Museums: 

American  Museum  of  Natural 

History,  273. 
Field  Columbian  Museum,  273. 
Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art, 

273- 

Morgan     Bement     Collection, 
267. 

United    States    National    Mu- 
seum, 273. 

Valentine  Museum,  279. 
Music,  167,  168. 

Negro,  12,  13,  14,  67,  77,  78,  114. 
Nurseries,  153,  338,  339. 

Opossum,  76. 

Panther,  243,  300. 
Paper-pulp  mill,  2"],  28,  30. 
Pennyroyal  still,  330. 
Persons: 

Alexander,  Captain,  134. 

Ashe,  Samuel,  123. 

Aunt  Eliza,  13,  14. 

Aunt  Hootie,  13. 

Baird,  Zebulon,  123,  125. 

Baring,  Charles,  115,  1 16. 

Big  Witch,  237. 

Bismarck,  1 17. 

Blaylock,  Mrs.  Nancy,  281. 

Boone,  Daniel,  359. 

Bradley,  142. 

Buncombe,  Col.  Edward,  128. 


Calloway,  Irving,  376. 

Campbell,  285. 

Choiseuil,  Count  de,  116. 

Chunn,  Samuel,  130. 

Coffey,  Mrs.,  358. 

Craddock,  Charles  Egbert,  103. 

Davidson,  William,  134. 

Dickson,  Dr.  Samuel,  130. 

Drayton,  Rev.  John  G.,  117. 

Elliott,  116. 

Foster,  142. 

Gray,  Asa,  275,  335. 

Hampton,  142. 

Hampton,  Gen.  Wade,  260. 

Hunt,  Richard  M.,  120. 

Kelsey,  S.  T.,  339. 

King,  Dr.  Mitchell  C,  117. 

Lanier,  Sidney,  42. 

Lowndes,  116. 

"  Mac,"  Jim,  243  (MacMahon). 

Madcap,  166. 

McClure,  142. 

McRae,  375. 

Meese,  Melissa,  281. 

Memminger,  G.  C,  117. 

Metcalf,  166. 

Michaux,  275,  340,  349. 

Middleton,  116. 

Mitchell,  Rev.  Elisha,  309,  310, 

311- 
Molyneux,  116. 
Morgan,  142. 

Newton,  Rev.  George,  126. 
Olmsted,  Frederick  Law,  120, 

154- 
Osborne,     Adoniram     Judson, 

278. 
Pack,  George  W.,  133. 
Patton,  James,  127,  128,  130. 
Patton,  Montreville,  128. 
Pinckney,  116. 
Ravenel,  Capt.  S.  P.,  252. 
Reese,  old  Sally,  285. 
Rhodes,  142. 


INDEX 


395 


Robbins,  Mrs.,  195. 

Rogers,  142. 

Rutledge,  116. 

Sargent,  Prof.,  275. 

Short,  Prof.,  275. 

Simms,     Greenville    Female 

Seminary,  13. 
Smith,  James  M.,  128. 
Stradley,  Rev.  Thomas,  130. 
Swain,  David  Lowry,  126. 
Swain,  George,  125. 
Tomson,  Mrs.  Hint,  195. 
Vance,  Zcbulon  B.,  133. 
Vanderbilt,    George    \V.,    120, 

132. 
Walker,  Felix,  129. 
Ward,  Mrs.  Levi,  196. 
Williams,  Rich.  187,  188,  189. 
Wilson,  Adolphus,  306. 
Wilson,     Big    Tom,    305,   310, 

311- 
Wing,     Prof.     Charles    Hallet, 

326,  327,  328. 
Pl.aces: 

Alexander,  134. 

AUenstand,  229. 

Asheville,  122-136. 

Bakersvillc,  316,  333. 

Balsam  Gap,  301. 

Banner  Elk,  360,  361. 

Bat  Cave,  97,  98. 

Bear  Creek  Settlement,  329. 

Bea\er  Dam,  126. 

Biltmore,    120,    132,    147-160, 

230. 
Blowing  Rock,  350-355- 
Boone,  358,  359. 
Brevard,  119,  262. 
Broad  River  \'allcy,  94,  97,  99, 

100. 
Bryscm  City,  232. 
Buncombe   County,    122,    128, 

i:?').  133- 
Burnsville,  314. 


Cesar's  Head,  88,  89,  92,  93. 
Cane    River   Valley,  304,   305, 

313.  314- 
Calloways,  361. 
Canton,  278. 
CashiiT  \'alley,  2(m. 
Cherokee,  235. 
Chimney  Rock,  88,  93-100. 
Cloudland  Hotel,  334. 
Corundum  Hill,  25s,  266. 
Cranberry,  334,  336. 
Cnjssnort',  338. 
CruM),  2S7,  290. 
Cullasagee    X'allev,    2=57,     258, 

267.  ' 
CuUowhee  \"alley,  248. 
Dark  corners,  10,  90,  209-2 1 2. 
Davis  (iap,  296. 
Day  Book,  332. 
Dillsboro,  232. 
"  Dismal,"  92,  93. 
Dutch  Cove,  281,  282. 
Eagle  Hotel,  128. 
Eagle's  Xest,  299. 
Elk  Park,  336. 
"English's,"  318. 
Esmeralda  Inn,  97. 
Flat  Rock,  111-118. 
Franklin,  257,  258. 
French  Broad  X'alley,  262,  263, 

295- 
Garden  Creek,  278,  290. 
Gum  Spring,  134. 
Henriersonville,  1 19. 
Henson  Cove,  279,  281.  2S2. 
Hickory,  354. 
Hickorynut  Gap,  94. 
Highlands,  250-253.   257,    2'''3, 

339- 
Horse  Co\'c,  252. 
Hot  Springs,  98.  124,  127. 
"I\-y  Country,"  229,  305. 
John's  Ri\-er  N'alley,    352,  353, 

374- 


396 


INDEX 


Jonathan  Creek  Valley,  235. 

Kawana,  338. 

"Laurel  Country,"  229. 

Ledger,  325-329-  332- 

Lenoir,  354. 

Linville,  338,  339,  340,  344. 

Lofus  Lory,  332. 

"Logan's,"  95. 

Lost  Cove  Cliffs,  351. 

Lynn,  42. 

iMcRae's,  374,  375. 

Micaville,  316,  325. 

Mountain  View  Hotel,  97. 

Morristown,  123. 

Old  Fort,  124,  132. 

Pacolet  Valley,  41,  80,  III. 

Paint  Rock,  127. 

Pigeon  River  Valley,  30. 

"  Pink  Beds,"  295. 

Pisgah  Forest,  151,  152. 

Pizen  Cove,  281. 

Plumtree  Country,  242. 

Ravenswood,  117. 

Roan  Mountain  Station,  336. 

Rock  Creek  Valley,  334. 

Saluda,  in. 

Sapphire    Country,    119,    158, 
261-266,  274,  275. 

Spruce    Pine,    270,    316,    318, 
332. 

Swannanoa    Valley  and   Gap, 
124. 

Sylva,  232. 

Toxaway,  158,  263. 

Tuxedo,  119. 

Traumfest,  2,  3,  6,   7-14,  55, 
65,  67,  88. 

Valle  Crucis,  360. 

Waynesville,     232,    296,    297, 
298. 

Whiteside  Cove,  259,  260. 

Whittier,  232,  235. 
Pottery.    See  Jug-making. 
Presbyterians,  130,  219. 


Rabbits,  85,  86. 

Railroad,  119,  124,  131,  132,  232, 

258,  263,  305,  314,  326,  380. 
Rat,  84. 

Rattlesnakes,  288,  289. 
Rivers.   See  Streams. 
Roads,  8,  108,  113,  124,  127,  129, 

149,  151,  158,305,  339- 

Schools,  126,  197,  221,  223;  Bre- 
vard Institute,  225,  226;  Allen- 
stand,  226,  227,  228,  229,  230; 

Biltmore  Industries,  230,  231; 

Indian,  237;  Ledger,  326,  327. 
Scorpio,  368. 
Sled,  14,  82. 

Snakes.   See  Rattlesnakes. 
Snow,  81,  82. 
Snuff,  169,  170. 
Spinning-wheel,  183,  193,  227. 
Springs,  106,  295,  299,  371. 
Squirrels,  84,  370. 
St.   John-in-the-Wilderness,    116, 

117. 
Streams  and  Lakes: 

Armstrong  Creek,  317. 

Bear  Creek,  329. 

Big  Laurel  Creek,  229. 

Broad  River,  94,  98. 

Cane  Creek,  94,  333. 

Catawba  River,  31. 

Cattail  Branch,  313. 

Cold  Creek,  287. 

Cowee  Creek,  267,  268. 

Crabtree  Creek,  297. 

Cullasagee  River,  258. 

Davidson's  River,  134. 

Dutch  Creek,  360. 

Estatoe  River.    See  Toe  River. 

French    Broad    River,   93,   98, 
121,  124,  127,  263. 

Grandmother  Creek,  340. 

Green  River,  94,  in. 

Hickorynut  Creek,  98. 


INDEX 


397 


Horscpasturo  River,  261,  262, 

275- 
Ivy  River,  305. 
Lake  Fairfielil,  261,  262. 
Lake  Sapphire,  261,  262. 
Lake  Toxaway,  261,  262. 
Laurel  Fork,  243. 
Linville   River,   243,  338,  341, 

342,  374,  375. 
Little  Crabtree  Creek,  304,  316. 
Little  Tennessee  River,  258. 
Mill  River,  358. 
Nolichiicky  River,  315. 
Oconalufty  River,  235, 237, 238. 
Pacolet  River,  7,  80,  iii,  131, 

381. 
Pigeon    River,    277,    278,    282, 

283,  284,  287. 
Pisgah  Creek,  291. 
Plumtree  Creek,  338. 
Pool  Creek,  98,  99. 
Plott  Creek,  300. 
Richland  Creek,  296. 
Soco  Fall,  236. 
"Sugar  Fork,"  257. 
Swannanoa    River,    127,    134, 

305- 
Tcssentce  Creek,  271. 
Tiger  River,  187,  188. 
Toe  River,  304,  315-318. 


!      Toxaway  River,  262. 
Turkasegee,  249. 
Valley  River,  278. 
Vaughn's  Creek,  210. 
W.itauga  River,  361,  363,  369. 
Waterfalls,    98,    99,    236,    249, 

257,  264,  360;  Linville,  340- 

34(>- 

"Tar-heel,"  84. 

Thermal  belt,  3,  96. 

Trees.    See  Flowers. 

Toad,  368. 

Trout,  243, 307, 338, 343, 344, 369, 

Tumble-tlown  stile,  115. 

Typhoid,  163. 

Washing  clothes,  19S,  199,  200. 
Weaving,  193-197.  227-231. 
Weeks  Bill,  30,  31. 
Whipsaw,  313. 
Whiskey,  9,  10,  66,  201-217. 
Wildcat,  243. 
Wood-rat,  85. 
Woodcarving,  230,  231. 
Woodchuck,  85. 

Yonahlosscc  Road,  339,  375,  37'  . 

Zodiacal  light,  5. 


Thisb   -"ki-DTTT  o-  '  ^    st? 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S    .   A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DLE  on  the  last  date  stamped  belo\v. 


UNi\  ;  KSiTY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 

LIBRARY 


,,Jlllllllllllllllllllllll""l^' 

AA      000  019  125   4 


